


The Outcrossers (Look Away)

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Series: The Pacemakers [4]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Ambushes and Sneak Attacks, Assassination, Battle, Bigotry & Prejudice, Biracial Character, Cameos, Coping, Crimes & Criminals, Danger, Death Threats, Distrust, Drug Withdrawal, Execution, Family Bonding, Foreboding, Goodbyes, Guilt, Help, Hospitalization, Injury Recovery, Interrogation, Introspection, Judgment, Loss of Trust, Minor Character Death, Multi, Old Friends, Original Character-centric, Power Dynamics, Pre-Earth Transformers, Protectiveness, Racism, Rescue Missions, Self-Discovery, Teambuilding, Trouble In Paradise, Unexpected Visitors, preening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 60,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6863023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Outcrossers are what come from a union of sparks from different cities. Strain has always been torn between the Minibots' city of Culumex and the Bulks' city of Praxus. His one ally's family distrusts him, his real family disregards him, and the family he made despises him. All he can do is look elsewhere...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Focused on the original character of Strain from my previous story, "With Healing On Its Wings", ~~this is something I'll work on whenever I have the time and feel like updating~~ this is now a story I am actively working on, due to its importance to future plots. I hope you enjoy! ;)
> 
> Pace - A company or herd of mules; in my headcanon, a family of Minibots; also a traditional expectation and an honor among Minibots who form one.
> 
> One - the first Minibot to agree to join the proposer's pace; Sequein - the second to agree to join; Trilitare - the third to agree to join.
> 
> Culumexian - the form of Cybertronian spoken by residents of Culumex, the Minibot city on Cybertron, or the residents themselves.
> 
> Verriese - "foreigner/outsider"

The last lock settled into place with a quiet click. As Strain pulled his luggage from his recharge slab, he ex-vented lightly and took a minute to study his surroundings.

This old airway pod had been his home—no. This had been his _residence_ for thirty-nine vorns and now he was leaving it. He knew it was for the best; he didn’t dare stay. If by some mishap the pace he’d betrayed was freed from stasis unexpectedly, he would never be safe. He needed to make his escape while he could.

Ever since he agreed to go undercover in a pace, Culumex had been the bane of his existence. Strain didn’t like to think of it that way, but it was true. Even so, he had adapted to it and to the people who had come to trust him. They would never make that mistake again.

Shaking his helm, Strain blinked out of his thoughts and impulsively set his cases next to the door, unlocking his shoulders and letting his augmented arms unfurl and sweep through what remained of his pace’s belongings.

The personal items had been taken by the authorities as evidence, but his…friends…their recharge slabs had been left behind. He tidied them up as Incinerator would, straightening and folding the thermal tarps. He could see the stains from the time Highstake had tripped over a cleft in the floor and spilled several cans of home Visco.

_“That’s just great,” Boomerang huffed, flinging droplets from her hands in disgust._

_“Sorry, sorry,” Highstake groaned, glancing over with wide optics to see just how annoyed Incinerator would be; he had been the most unfortunate victim, now drenched in the drink. Though his face was completely calm, their leader’s wings were twitching with furious abandon, which indicated he was quite displeased with the incident._

_“Um…sorry,” Highstake repeated, more gingerly. Incinerator opened his mouth—what he was going to say, no one knew—and then closed it again at a snort of laughter from Kiln._

_“Here,” Kiln offered, giggling as he rose from his recharge slab and danced over the sticky puddles on the floor. “I’ll—haha—I’ll help you wash up, Cin. Let’s go outside.”_

_Ex-venting coolly, Incinerator rose and filed silently out. Strain said nothing as the brothers moved past him, though he did turn toward the window and peek out to see how the situation would be resolved._

_Sure enough, Incinerator slapped Kiln upside the helm as soon as they were a yard away. Kiln responded by swiveling out the dispensers in his arms and shooting his brother with water. Highstake had vented a sigh of relief and Boomerang had followed Cin’s example, tapping his helm sharply and ordering him to clean up. Strain had ignored them, still watching through the window as Incinerator let his guard down for once and the wash became a water fight._

That had been one of the times Strain had felt he was _honestly_ part of the pace, even if he was just playing the part of the observer. He hadn’t minded that part then.

Once the slabs and their tarps were sorted, he retracted his arms and pivoted, sweeping up his belongings and leaving the pod with a heavy spark. As twisted as it may be, he was going to miss this life. He was going to miss the pace who now hated him and he was going to miss Culumex, home to his carrier. If she were still alive, he wouldn’t have known what to say to her as goodbye.

As he made his way toward the airway station, he would seek out the subfolders holding fond memories of his time here and occasionally pause if he remembered the significance of a particular location. Dusk was falling, which meant the light generators would come on soon. He quickened his stride; if he watched them ignite, he might get nostalgic and stay just a little longer. A small time would become a long time, just as his undercover assignment had been.

 _There is no home for you here_ , he reminded himself. _You’ve become indulgent._

The airway pods at this sector’s station were far superior to the outdated one the troupe had used. Strain would admit he was impressed if anyone had bothered to ask.

Ignoring the stares that were drawn to him as he boarded, he sat in the seat farthest from the other passengers. There were only a few of them, but they still could be a danger. Strain kept his helm down, refusing to look up at them, and folded his long arms over his chest. This method of travel drew the chance of someone recognizing him and thereby remembering his past affiliations with the criminal troupe of performers, but it was the fastest route from the city. It would all be over in twelve joors or so.

In Praxus, the differences between his frame and others wouldn’t be quite so blatant. He would just be considered…uncommon, instead of bizarre. Instead of the span of his arms and his loftiness, the attention would be on his lack of doorwings and a chevron. What he _didn’t_ have was easier for Strain to bear than what he did.

“Sire, why does that mech look so weird?”

That was a sparkling’s overly loud whisper, so Strain ignored the natural curiosity and didn’t look up. His oddities had been the joy to many a sparkling during the troupe’s performances. He was interested, however, in seeing how the sire responded.

“Oh…” The sire sounded puzzled and reluctant simultaneously. “He looks like an outcrosser.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s someone who has a sire and a carrier from different cities,” the carrier spoke up mildly. Strain looked up with a twisted smile as he watched the carrier mouth over the sparkling’s helm, “A knockoff?” to which the sire nodded solemnly and cast a glare in his direction, startled when he found Strain staring stonily back.

“But that’s not what I meant,” the sparkling argued, recapturing his creators’ attention. “I mean it’s weird that he’s _sad!_ Why’s he so sad when we’re going to a **verriese** city? It's exciting!”

Strain blinked a few times, pursed his lips and looked out the window as the airway pod began rumbling away. For an outcast, an outcrosser, a change like this was for the best. Sooner or later he might find others like him.

In the meantime, he needed to settle for what he had.


	2. Chapter 2

As Strain stepped onto the streets of Praxus for the first time in so many vorns, he immediately recognized the stately, distant spires of the Assembly Building, each dressed down neatly in silver and chrome. It was a lofty and intimidating welcome, so unlike the half-formed, chaotic scaffolds of Culumex, Strain noted; for a nanoklik he had the distinct sensation that he was a prodigal creation being welcomed back into the folds of intellect and uniformity.

He also suspected that while the Assembly Building was a familiar and almost comforting sight, if he tried to look beyond the surface welcome, there would be just enough misplaced nuances to remind him that he hadn’t been here for a while. He certainly didn’t recognize this station and its shops, but it couldn’t be held against him. Even when he had lived in Praxus full-time, he hadn’t come to the station often. He had seen no reason to, given that he had never left the city. When he eventually did make that journey, he had left using his own means of transportation in his haste to run.

Strain ex-vented evenly, pushing aside the guilt by instinct and moving on so he wouldn’t hold up other members of the crowd. For a joor or two, he wandered, searching for memorable businesses to acknowledge as landmarks and growing increasingly ill at ease. Some of the businesses had relocated entirely and those that had stayed had changed their layouts, making it hard to recognize them. At long last he found an old sweet shop he was familiar with, Clutch’s Rush, and paused on the street to take it in.

Faintly he smiled as he recalled the first energon cake he had ever received and his subsequent vow that he would never refuel with standard energon again, not if they could afford something so wonderful. His carrier had laughed and reminded him that his sire might ask what all of his credits were funding and that he would need a formal education sooner or later.

Now, the hybrid mech could see Overclutch himself, the creator of the brand, handing out rust-sticks to the sparklings and making animated gestures; if Strain recalled correctly, the retired warrior was rather famous for his stories. For just a nanoklik Strain considered slipping inside to listen, but there might be time for that later. If he was near Clutch’s Rush, it meant he was near another landmark much closer to his spark. He kept to the emptier streets as he made his way toward the further outskirts of the city.

Living rurally seemed to be a trend of his, he mused as he approached the site of his sparklinghood home. It looked worn, he noted as it came into view, but otherwise it was much the same. In fact, it looked as though no one else had lived there since he had. He could see a sputtering holo-emitter, a sign that the home had been on the market, but not many Praxians wanted to live or even visit an area so far from the center of the city. Setting down his belongings, he glanced around briefly before punching in his old code from memory, startled and relieved when he found the faded, oily keypad still worked.

As he stepped into his old home, Strain felt his vents instinctively catch. So much love had gone into this place, now stuffy with old smells of oil and rust. Armed with enough funds from his sire, his carrier had built their home with her own two hands, fierce independence and natural ingenuity. Strain wished he had been old enough to remember the process, but he certainly knew everything that had followed. Whatever he hadn’t seen for himself, he knew of in his carrier’s words.

_“Your second frame was forged here,” Verity told him once, optics bright with nostalgia and pride. “I wasn’t about to let those medics dictate what my mechling looked like, so I bought some data pads and an expensive calculator that your sire loaned me. In this very seat, Primus gave me the inspiration I needed to shape the very plating you’re in now.”_

_Strain had glanced down at his chest and smiled, hugging himself for a klik or two before asking, “Who did you want me to look like, you or Sire?”_

_“Well…since your sire wasn’t there to forge your armor with me, I made sure you had some hints of both of us,” Verity answered at length. “After all, it wouldn’t be fair if you looked more like him than me, would it_?”

Verity had raised him here, content and well-provided-for, but most clear in his mind were the times she spoke of _her_ sparklinghood home. Oftentimes before he recharged, Strain would listen in awe as she described the joys of Culumex, explaining the concept of the city’s sectors and praising Vector as her own.

“Maybe when you’re older, Strain, you’ll see it for yourself in all of its glory,” she would whisper, lightly brushing her fingers over his face when she thought he was recharging. “When you’re older, we’ll go together…”

If anything, Strain was glad that she had eventually made the journey and lived her last vorns there, even if he had followed too late to share it with her.

Suddenly overwhelmed, Strain set his travel cases in his old berthroom and then left his home behind. The wave of memories was comforting, but he wasn’t in any mood to be alone. He wanted to visit someone familiar, but there were very few places where he would be welcome if he dropped in unannounced. Somehow he had become a paradox of his own motto—“ _Proper preparation prevents poor performance_ ”—and he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to call any of his old contacts. The sheer surprise of his arrival, however, guaranteed that he would be welcome in one particular home, if only for the sake of finding out where he had been.

Thus Strain found himself on the doorstep of a neat two-story home, trying to smile as its owner opened the door to greet him. He recognized Strain at once and swallowed hard before speaking.

“Strain? What are you—?” Streamline’s cautious question trailed off into startled blinking. After a klik or two he composed himself, glanced hurriedly past his visitor and fluffed his doorwings into a more genteel pose, offering, “The afternoons have a slight chill to them now. Please do come in and warm up.”

As he obeyed and maneuvered past, Strain noticed Streamline checking the empty street more thoroughly before the door closed. _He likely thinks that I’m still on the run. Prowl would be reluctant to do me the favor of informing him that I’ve been pardoned_ , Strain reminded himself. “You needn’t worry. I only arrived here a few joors ago.”

“I see. Are you…ah, are you well?” Streamline ventured. “Let me look at you.” Strain stilled, allowing him to step closer so they could study each other. His sire was more weathered than Strain remembered, though he couldn’t say he had ever had a strong picture of him for comparison. His paint scheme, a mix of violet, indigo, and black, was as rich and vivid as ever, but it made the paling of his neon-blue optics more apparent.

Streamline didn’t seem to notice Strain’s appraisal, too busy making his own. Hesitantly the older mech moved his hands across his creation’s defined, cragged shoulders, so unlike his own, so like his carrier’s. For a nanoklik Streamline lifted his hand higher, brushing two fingertips over Strain’s left cheek guard before restraining himself and pivoting away.

“Would you care for an energon cube?”

Strain nodded distractedly as he found a chair. If he was honest, he was a bit entranced by Streamline’s movements as he gathered fuels and set the table. It had been so long since Strain had seen a table set at all, much less in traditional Praxian form: energon services at the far end, cutlery and handheld fuels squarely in the center, all polished to a fine glow. When Streamline was bringing the energon cubes themselves, Strain reached across easily for his, watching his sire move to an empty chair as he drank. Streamline stopped up short just before sitting, optics widening slightly, and Strain tilted his helm at him.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, wiping his mouth and absently swirling the energon in the cube.

“Of course not,” Streamline managed after a small hesitation, sinking down and tipping his energon into one of the two flutes on the table. Strain blinked at the one meant for him, first in surprise and then understanding as he detected his social misstep: drinking energon straight from the cube was a sign of disdain for the host.

“Tell me what’s happened to you, Strain,” Streamline urged lightly, clearly trying to ignore the indiscretion. “The last I heard of you was when your friend Smokescreen told me no more police inquiries would be made.”

Slightly self-conscious, Strain set his cube down on the table, barely noticing when a bit of it sloshed over the side. He had been expecting this prompt and had prepared himself with a straightforward report of the facts.

“After I resigned my position with the force, I found my way to Culumex,” he stated.

“Oh? Did you visit your carrier while you were there?”

 _That_ question was unexpected. “No. Upon my arrival, I discovered that she had joined the Allspark.” Streamline froze, a violent twitch of his doorwings forcing him to ex-vent sharply, and Strain inclined his helm in some sympathy. “According to the medics, her passing was peaceful.” His sire said nothing in reply, staring somewhere over Strain’s shoulder, and Strain hastily took the opportunity to fill the silence with the explanation he had prepared. He spoke of his first few vorns in Culumex, keeping a low profile, and then his introductions to the pace. His descriptions of his former mates were purposely brief; his spark twisted as he thought of them, of everything they had been to him.

“…I was the **quanidre** , the fourth mech to be indicted. Highstake, the **trilitare** , was a rather distasteful mech; he resented the favor I had with our leader, but for the sake of the others we treated each other cordially. Kiln was the **sequein** , youngest in the pace, and he acted as such: brash, outspoken, overly excitable…He was also the younger brother to our leader. Boomerang, a femme, was the One, Incinerator’s right hand; she maintained order when Incinerator wasn’t around. Cin was…”

Strain faltered then, mentally reliving the betrayal and hatred in the other mech’s face. “Cin wasn’t like the others. He was a powerful mech and a commanding leader—solemn, sophisticated, discerning. He was a force to be reckoned with, unassailable. He wasn’t one to show affection, but he loved his pace in his own way. He supported the pace, made us unshakable. Little did he know of my mission…that I was destined to betray him.”

Once Strain had finished relating the end of his assignment and his following pardon, Streamline cleared his throat. “That must have been difficult for you. I am curious, how did you happen to meet the High-Octane Flyers in the first place?”

Blinking evasively, Strain poured the remainder of his energon into the second flute and pointedly mimicked his sire’s form of holding it, forcing a thin smile as the long-ago encounter came to mind.

_“In case you can’t see it for yourself, Cin, this new friend of yours is a freak.”_

_“I’m aware, Kiln. I’m also aware that I’m not the standard mech myself. How NET sees us is not how we’re meant to be seen and it seems that when we’re at risk, we freaks find each other. Am I right, Strain, to assume we should stick together for a while, until the threat eases?”_

_“…Naturally, Airmaster.”_

_“Call me Incinerator.”_

“You needn’t answer if you don’t want to,” Streamline was apologizing when Strain returned to the present. “It’s about time for the evening fuel anyway.”

“True.” Setting the lukewarm medium-grade aside, Strain rose, peering at the darkness falling outside the window and then back at his sire. “Would you care to join me for the refueling? Perhaps you could introduce me to one of the restaurants which opened during my absence.” He shouldn’t have been surprised at Streamline’s expression of discomfort at the suggestion, but the surprise was there nonetheless.

“No, I was planning to stay in tonight and…do some reading,” the older mech claimed politely, half-turning in the direction of the back rooms. Strain inclined his helm, resigning himself to disappointment, resentment, and the sneaking suspicion that his sire didn’t want to be seen with him outside, not even in the darkness.

“Very well. I’m staying in my carrier’s former home if you happen to change your mind sometime,” he acquiesced, keeping his cool. Streamline nodded thoughtfully and Strain pivoted toward the door, pausing when his sire called after him.

“Strain—I’m sorry to hear about Verity. She was a good femme and clearly a proper carrier to you.”

“Yes, she was. Sire…tell me, did you ever love her?”

“I might have, had our situations been different.” Streamline’s voice fell. “Had we made time for it.”

This wasn’t the answer Strain had been hoping for, but he didn’t judge Streamline for it. Instead he simply thanked him for the energon cube and left in search of proper evening fuel.

Hardly a breem later, he had his back pressed against the nearest ambiguous wall, clutching at its grooves and trying to time his venting and his spark. He had never been fond of darkness and over the vorns had grown used to Culumex’s nighttime, when all of the sectors’ energy generators burst on and drove off every shadow, no matter how deep, with their light and warmth. While Strain had never been prone to panic, he was aware of how _alone_ he was now, when no light came through for him in the darkness and, as his sire had warned, the night air had a biting chill.

Sliding a hand along the wall to ground himself, Strain prowled a circle around the building until he found the front entrance. Within, he could hear the clatter of tenants and he released a shivery ex-vent, squaring his shoulders and ducking inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd we're off! I'm trying to kickstart this story again because there's going to be some fun times that are crucial to know in the future. It's also nice to be investigating Strain and his backstory again! Comment and let me know what you think!
> 
> Also, he made no less than six social faux pas in the Victorian Praxus tea party his sire gave him XD Can you find them all?


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as Strain entered the restaurant, Critical Junction, he had to duck back toward the door out of the way as a server rushed past, her doorwings high and tight. Eyebrows rising, Strain glanced around, taking in the atmosphere: the pastel walls, large booths and small tables, and the lights gradually dimming with the fall of evening. There were Praxians of all shapes and sizes here, he noted, which was why he shouldn’t have been surprised to glance to his right and find someone staring at him.

The femme looked bewildered by him, looking him up and down for several kliks before smiling distractedly and dropping the matter, turning back to her conversation with her companion. Strain was used to ignorance about his appearance; when he was with the troupe, he had always been stared at in this way. It brought to mind the many times someone had made an off remark about him under their vents. If a member of his pace overheard, more often than not they would jump to his defense. _Highstake wouldn’t_ , he reminded himself, huffing lightly and skirting past a group that was leaving. Thoughts of the **trilitare** ’s resentment towards him weighed on his mind; there was no need for them.

Once he had found a small, empty table in the middle-left of the room, Strain took one of the two seats and ex-vented. It was better to be in here with light and people than alone in the outer darkness. He still felt the climbing tension in his shoulders and neck as he wondered how he was going to blindly find his way home. With all of the bustle around him, he doubted anyone would stay still long enough to give him directions. Everywhere he looked, doorwings were on the move, communicating needs between the servers and the tenants.

It struck Strain then that as he watched, he felt the smallest sliver of discomfort nip at his spark. As a wingless mech, he didn’t have the luxury of communicating this way. The tension in him tightened and he was forced to rein in his EM field, scolding himself for relaxing his hold on it in the first place. In lieu of wings, he leaned over the tabletop and called to a server walking past, “When you have the time, could I have a cube of high-grade, please?”

“It might be a while!” the waiter warned, not even glancing at him as he hurried toward a booth with two howling sparklings.

“I can wait,” Strain assured him, optics trailing to the sparklings. Folding his long arms on the tabletop, forearms overhanging the edges, he twitched a few fingers in a wave. One of them noticed, blinking at him with wide, teary optics, and Strain smiled slightly before making various bizarre expressions to entertain them. When the sparkling finally laughed, the hybrid mech chuckled too, but it trailed off in his throat when the sparkling’s creators glanced over; the distrust on their faces took him aback slightly and he sobered, glancing away. When the little one began crying again, he didn’t intervene.

When he had first joined the circus, he had been just as distrustful of the public as they were of him. His pace—Kiln in particular—had done their best to teach him the Culumexian forms of etiquette so he could interact with others with some more trust. Here, he had none of that to fall back on—his distressing tactlessness at his sire’s had made that clear enough. It was ironic, Strain decided bitterly, that while Culumexians may seem—and often _were_ —uptight and easily defensive, their standards were so much laxer than the Praxians. At the very least, Strain was grateful to his sire for overlooking his indiscretions.

 _But he_ did _notice them. Is that…Is that why he didn’t want to come with me for dinner? Was he afraid I would embarrass him? Did I already embarrass him?_ Strain blinked a few times, lowering his optics to his arms—his awkward, clunky, angular arms. _Do I still?_

His EM field was escaping his grasp again, lashing with the same tension as the doorwings of the people around him. Blinking again as realization dawned, Strain looked back up sharply. This tension he felt wasn’t internal; it was in the atmosphere, rolling past him, over him in waves. Now he saw the mechs in the closest booth staring at him with the optics of predators whose territory had been breached. It was another look he had received before, when he acted as Incinerator’s bodyguard during their meetings with Underground associates. Briefly he considered meeting their optics, menacing them into submission as they were no doubt trying to do to him, before deciding that they shouldn’t be worth the effort. They wouldn’t act in a public place like this, if they had been raised on Praxian decorum.

When he turned his gaze in the opposite direction, he was treated to another fixed stare: that of his server, who stood a few yards away with a cube of high-grade in his hand. Strain straightened expectantly, but the mech’s doorwings flicked down and out scornfully. He pivoted away.

Without a thought for discretion or subtlety, Strain unfolded his arms, snapping the right one into gear with a heavy clank. Internal ratchets chittered as he extended his arm, clamped onto the energon cube and deftly swiped it out of the waitron’s hand. He sensed one or two of the aggressive mechs leap to their feet and fluidly he followed suit.

“You must have overlooked me in your hurry just now,” he addressed the waiter calmly. “Correct?” The mech didn’t bother to reply before striding brusquely away and Strain glanced up at the aggressors to his left. “I’ll take this to go,” he added, casting a broad glance at the other tenants, who gaped, whispered and squirmed as he made his way to the door. There he paused one last time, pointedly stretching another few feet and pushing his chair in before letting his arm slither back into its proper length. When he emerged from the restaurant, he discovered that tonight, the darkness didn’t seem as harsh as what the light inside had illuminated.

 _So this is how things are now_ , he mused, sipping his energon cube as he wandered in what he believed was the general direction of the outskirts. He had to admit to himself that he’d hoped for better things. Reality was…disappointing, and because of that he didn’t recharge when he finally found himself in his new and old home. Instead he unpacked what few things he had, arranging and rearranging to keep himself occupied until sunlight finally flickered through the window.

Strain waited patiently as the morning came and went, but when it was afternoon, he couldn’t bear it any longer. He had to find someone, _anyone_ he knew. Right now, he balked at the idea of going back to his sire. He would wait until he had re-acclimated to Praxus and its genteel rules and then would give it a second chance.

Again he found his way to Clutch’s Rush, but this time he found the courage to enter, undeterred even when the overly sweet scent of rust sticks and energon goodie cake hit his vents. Once he was inside, he took in the scene: a throng of sparklings, doorwings blurring and bumping as they crowded together, but their loud cries weren’t from excitement; they were swarming around Overclutch’s prone form, shouting in dismay and alarm. Venting sharply, Strain tensed to take action, but after two steps he realized, to his relief, what was happening.

“The commander flung an arm out desperately for his last explosive,” Overclutch gasped out from where he lay sprawled against the credit counter, his hand scrabbling for a jar of rust-sticks which lay just out of reach. “It was so very close, it was his last hope…But wouldn’t you know it, the leader of the outlaws who had attacked him stepped on his hand, pinning him helpless!”

“Why didn’t he punch the outlaw with his _other_ hand?!” one of the femmelings in the crowd demanded, much to Strain’s amusement.

“His other hand was pressed against one of the wounds he’d sustained,” Overclutch reminded her. “Now, with his life surely about to end, he stared up at the outlaw with all the bravery he could muster. He moved his hand from the wound, wiped energon and oil on the outlaw’s foot, and then took up his pair of stasis cuffs. Clutching his cuffs, the commander spoke his noble last words. He said—Ahh, good afternoon, sir!”

There was a ripple of bewilderment from the sparklings as Overclutch rose, seizing the jar of rust-sticks. Strain surveyed them for a klik before realizing that Overclutch was addressing him. “Good afternoon,” he returned, earning several stares and whispers from the crowd of little ones. “My apologies for the interruption.”

“No, no, it’s alright, my lad. This is a place of business, after all, and…” The former warrior lowered his broad red and gray doorwings, his voice with them. “Truth be told, the young ones’ creators will be returning soon from other errands and I shouldn’t want to be caught telling them my daft battle stories. What’s your business here? Care for a rust-stick?”

“No, thank you. I’m slightly turned around and I hoped you would know where I could find a friend: Smokescreen.”

“Ahh, yes, Prowl’s cousin—Tell me, little ones, do you know the Praxian word for ‘cousin’?”

“ **Kaiohna**!” the sparklings chorused.

“Right. Smokescreen frequents the Lonely Stars Tavern not far from here; just take a right, a left, and another right at the end of the street.” Pressing the jar of rust-sticks into Strain’s hand, he added, “If not for yourself, take these to Smokescreen. Tell him they’re from me to my little officer, next time Smokes sees him.” Strain’s optics narrowed in puzzlement and Overclutch shrugged, offering him a crooked grin. “Even Prowl has his vices.”

“Clutch! Clutch, what did the commander say? Did he live?! Please, please!” several sparklings piped up, impatiently hoping the adults’ conversation was over. Strain gave the larger mech an expectant wave of the hand which was countered with raised eyebrows.

“Alright, then.” Replacing Strain’s jar with a cube of sweetened low-grade, Overclutch reset the scene on the floor. “The commander clung to his stasis cuffs. He knew he’d have only one shot at what he wanted to do and that with so much energon on his frame and the outlaw’s, it was ever so risky. But this particular commander was a fearless mech and, as I said, he gave noble last words to the outlaw…”

Strain took his leave then, following Overclutch’s directions to the Lonely Stars Tavern. Despite what the name suggested, the tenants were anything but lonely. Every table was overcrowded with chairs—some areas sported visitors perched on the tabletops themselves—and the smell of elite high-grade was almost overpowering; the building’s vents were running on high, churning the smell out underneath the streets. It was a laxer environment than most establishments in this area, though they still upheld the custom of drinking from glasses instead of cubes. Strain could see every available surface riddled with polished flutes.

He recognized Smokescreen at once but kept his distance, hoping to gauge how much his friend had changed in their time apart. From here, Strain could see that he had recently touched up his paintjob, softening his blues, dazzling his reds and whetting his whites, but otherwise he seemed entirely the same mech, fickle and playful, mysterious and alluring.

It wasn’t long before Smokescreen sensed that he was being watched. He stole a look which held, his hands stilling over the credits he was shuffling, and Strain dipped his helm in greeting. Smokescreen’s aero-blue optics lit up and a grin slid over his face before he turned back to his business. Once he had won the friendly game of Praxus Hold ’Em, he excused himself from his fellows, gesturing for Strain to trail after him.

Once they were in the privacy of a backroom, Strain had just enough time to brace himself before he was being snatched around the shoulders and lifted a foot off the ground. “I hoped,” Smokescreen sang, doorwings bobbing and fluttering. “Prowl told me your mission in Culumex was over and I hoped you would come.”

“It was my first free thought in so many vorns,” Strain confessed, relaxing into the impromptu hug. “I needed to see you.”

“Oh?” Setting his captive back on his feet, Smokescreen retreated a few steps, spreading his arms invitingly. “Now you see me! Let’s sit down and then you can tell me what you’ve been through.”

As soon as they were across from each other on the available couches, Strain described the long vorns of his assignment. Smokescreen was like an attentive sibling, occasionally commenting but mostly listening quietly, and Strain appreciated that enough that he divulged details he hadn’t to his sire—most prominently, the reactions of his pace-mates when he betrayed them.

“It must’ve felt like you were turning on your family,” Smokescreen remarked unreadably. As mildly as he had said it, it stung and Strain didn’t want to address it any longer than was necessary.

“How are you and yours? You said Prowl let you know that my mission was over. Does that mean he’s kept you in his various loops while I’ve been away?”

“You’re asking if my cousins and I have stayed close. Let’s say I’m close enough to Bluestreak that he still admires me, but not enough that he’ll consider me half the mech his brother is. Prowl and I have been dysfunctional. He’s made it infinitely clear that he doesn’t like my…extracurricular activities, but lately I’ve suspected that he’s trying to muster up the gall to arrest me. We do our best to keep Bluestreak out of our problems, but sometimes he can’t help but try mediating. You would think Bluestreak could get through to Prowl, but…If turning on your family is hard, Strain, try watching them turn on you.”

“Is _that_ how you’re distorting the facts? By all means, lie until everything is my fault.”

Smokescreen twisted around to face the doorway and its occupants. Another smile crossed his face, twisted with blatant malice. “Speak of the deuce. Should I be fleeing for the backdoor?”

“If you’ve done something you’re ashamed of, feel free,” Prowl urged derisively. “I’d be glad for the conclusive evidence.”

“Prowl, Smokes, c’mon,” the second mech in the doorway began, glancing between his brother and cousin pleadingly. “This is exactly what I was hoping to avoid.”

“Then you shouldn’t have insisted you come,” Prowl retorted without missing a beat.

Bluestreak faltered in the face of that logic, peeking over at Strain as the second bystander and waving uncomfortably. “Hello. Are you one of Smokescreen’s friends?” He was trying to redirect the subject and it was entirely too reminiscent of Kiln looking on Incinerator’s standoffs with Highstake, Strain decided.

“That I am,” he answered coolly. “You must be Prowl’s brother.” He was pleased to note how Prowl tensed in his peripheral vision. A little discomfort may very well do the officer some good; at the least, Strain could have a small taste of revenge for Smokescreen’s sake.

“That’s right; I’m Bluestreak. Nice to meet you.” Maneuvering past Prowl, Bluestreak shook Strain’s hand and mouthed, “Sorry about them.” Strain shrugged nonchalantly, his tight smile betraying it, and the silver mech tried to smile in return, but it came off more like a wince. Old distaste for Prowl stirring afresh, Strain drew himself up. Though he was still short a foot or two, it served his purposes and diverted a bit more of Prowl’s attention from Smokescreen.

“This is a surprise, Strain,” the policemech commented stiffly.

“Is it? I thought you would have deduced where I would go after being pardoned.”

“I did. The surprise is that you’re already so willing to tarnish your clean record by calling on Smokescreen.” Maintaining a challenging stare with his cousin, he added pointedly, “After all, the company he keeps may prove to be _dangerous_.”

Smokescreen chuckled as Prowl spoke, but it held no humor. “Dangerous to who, Prowl? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of my old friend here—but I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Watch yourself, Smokescreen; this one tends to backstab his old friends.”

“Prowl!” Bluestreak hissed as Smokescreen’s smile changed ever so slightly and Strain bristled.

“It wouldn’t be my first choice,” the Outcrosser growled. “But I was so ordered by the high and mighty ‘powers that be.’ You would know about that, wouldn’t you?”

“Don’t I ever,” Smokescreen and Prowl concurred in unison, though they had entirely different meanings behind it.

Shaking his helm minutely, Bluestreak edged away from Strain, holding up his hands and glancing at his kin. “Maybe we’d feel a little better with some energon cubes. Would that help us all calm down a little? I think it might.”

Prowl huffed, flicking a doorwing dismissively. “Feel free to join the line out there; I’m in no hurry. In fact…I think a few words with our cousin alone would be _beneficial_. Smokescreen and I could use the backdoor he was so anxious to point out.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bluestreak protested hurriedly.

“And it’s not like I’d go anywhere with you,” Smokescreen scoffed.

“Then we should do as Bluestreak suggested and have some energon cubes. Are you thirsty, cousin?” It may or may not be to Prowl’s credit that he managed to sharpen such an innocent question into something dangerous, but Smokescreen’s optics slid to Strain, who shifted suggestively forward at them. _Do you want me here for this?_

“I’ll see you later, Strain,” he dismissed him gently. _Stand down_. “We can catch up some more then. Sure, Prowl, I could go for a cube. Bluestreak, would you mind grabbing a few of those for us?”

Bluestreak wavered for another minute as Prowl pushed Smokescreen’s feet off the couch and sat. “Don’t fight,” the silver mech pleaded at last before heading back out into the bustle. Strain spared another withering glance at Prowl before doing the same.

As soon as the two of them were out of audial range, Smokescreen slid further down the couch. Prowl came to meet him in the center, muttering, “Had you made a plan to detach yourself from Strain before meeting with me or were you thinking you could cope with him as an unexpected complication?”

“I could ask you the same about Bluestreak,” Smokescreen quipped. “Why did you bring him along? You said you wanted to keep him out of this.”

Prowl’s doorwings flicked in combined exasperation and agreement. “Well, since neither is here right now to become involved, make your report.”

“The **Kumaikon** are in the process of staging another accident—something to do with the airway pod running from Grace Way to Polygon Row. They’re aiming for the pod itself, but I wouldn’t put it past them to sabotage the tracks as a backup plan,” Smokescreen huffed, glancing in the direction of the door for a klik before adding, “Three of their objectives live in the general area and use the pod regularly: Fullblast, Ionize, and Hard Drive. Prowl, just let me swipe one of the data pads so I can bring it to our next meet; I’m sure it’ll have enough evidence that you can prevent—”

“No,” Prowl cut him off tersely. “The **Kumaikon** trust you, Smokescreen, and you need to keep and exploit that trust until they make a misstep and we can seize _all_ of the evidence in one fell swoop.”

“But what’s going to be done in the meantime? They’ve been recruiting more of the middle-caste lately; they consider me part of the scenery now! I could slow them down, Prowl, if you’d just trust me to. Then we could end this ridiculous charade that we hate each other—which I _still_ don’t like, by the way. Come on, you know I wouldn’t be caught.”

“No, I don’t! I’m not willing to take that risk and you shouldn’t be either!” Prowl paused, recomposing himself to remind him, “If anything happened to you, **kaiohna** , it wouldn’t just condemn the high-caste bots they’re targeting now. The number of future targets would increase exponentially. Do you realize _why_ they’re trying to recruit middle-class mechs? It’s because they know that, all too soon, those middle-casters will rise to fill the void left by the mechs they’re disposing of now. _Any_ conventional bot receiving a career promotion could be at risk and I wouldn’t have a source on the inside to tell me who to protect…It could be Bluestreak, for all we know; he’s a middle-class mech due to become a member of the Assembly’s security force any time now.”

Smokescreen sighed, offering a bare hint of a nod, and Prowl couldn’t help the twinge of relief he felt. If there was anything that could get through to their cousin, it was Bluestreak, even if he was ignorant to Prowl and Smokescreen’s mission. Through their bond, Blue sensed the relief and prodded it curiously.

_~:Are you and Smokes restraining yourselves? That’d be nice to see, as soon as I’m done getting these drinks. By the way, you didn’t tell me what kind of energon you wanted.:~_

_~:I suppose I’ll come out and see what they have to offer, then. I’m finished with Smokescreen; you and I can take it to go,:~_ Prowl replied, glancing pointedly at Smokescreen to signal they were finished. “Call as soon as you can,” he urged lowly as they got to their feet, forced to suppress a bittersweet warmth as Smokescreen brushed his right doorwing against Prowl’s left in farewell before leaving through the backdoor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kaiohna: cousin  
> Kumaikon: arise from the ground
> 
> Mwahaha, don't worry, you'll see who the Kumaikon are very soon... ;)


	4. Chapter 4

_What sort of incident could possibly close off so much of the airway? Construction accident, indeed,_ Potshot grumbled mentally as he hurried down Polygon Row toward the faraway Assembly building. _I haven’t seen any construction whatsoever on this side of the airway…What do those policemechs think will happen? More trouble will come of the airway closing down than whatever they’re afraid of, I’m sure…_

As deep in thought as he was, he didn’t mind the stares that the passersby gave him; in fact, he hardly paid attention. It was a part of his life that he had become accustomed to since his last promotion and presently he was in too big a rush to acknowledge each glance.

Ex-venting in exasperation, he glanced at his chronometer. At this rate he was going to be at least twenty minutes late for the important vote he was a part of! That, in turn, would make him late getting home for work, which would make his sparkmate rather unhappy. This was supposed to be their evening out, the last before Potshot was promoted again and assigned to the night shift, so there was no chance of rescheduling.

His frustration only grew as he thought of losing that precious time, so he forced himself to push it out of his mind and lengthened his strides. Ten minutes might make all of the difference. Before he could fold into his alt. mode, however, a young voice called, “Sir Potshot…is that you?” and intercepted him from somewhere to his right. Reluctantly Potshot paused, trying to keep his annoyance out of his doorwings and expression.

“Yes? Do I know you?” he questioned as the middle-class mech who had spoken approached him, looking both jittery and shy. Potshot forced himself to vent deeply and relax, hoping not to intimidate him. In his mind he was making calculations around this unexpected delay. If he spared just two minutes…

“No, you don’t know me, sir,” the young mech assured him in a rush, “but your s-sparkmate said you left this at home…that you needed it.” So saying, he pushed a large box into Potshot’s hands, bobbed a half-bow and darted away before Potshot could open his mouth.

He couldn’t recall leaving anything behind, he mused, staring down at the box in puzzlement. Once he saw the typed note fixed to it, however, he softened, laughing lightly. It was just like his dear to buy him a gift for date nights and then send it to his office, too excited about it to wait until the evening. He could surely spare a third minute for opening it and making a call to give her his thanks.

The following explosion shattered the air, sending civilians onto the ground with its force and a thick blast of smoke and flame. Another detonation followed soon after as an exposed energon line under the street caught fire, consuming the remains of Potshot, the box, and the typed note: _“To my sweetspark, with love.”_

—

Strain left the Lonely Stars Tavern feeling a great many things—confusion and suspicion, most of all. Smokescreen had told him to leave, that they would catch up later on and that he was going to have an energon cube with his cousins. Other suggestions had been implied: _“Don’t worry about me, my friend. I can handle myself around them; they pose no great threat to me. Rest assured that I’m used to this. You can trust me.”_

While Strain could say that he _did_ trust Smokescreen at his word, he wasn’t sure what to think about what he saw afterward. As he left, he had happened to glance back in time to see Prowl and Smokescreen lean together, muttering in exclusive tones. Strain had paused long enough to hear the word “ **Kumaikon** ” and then Smokescreen had glanced toward the doorway, forcing him to duck out of sight and audial range.

“ **Kumaikon** ,” he muttered to himself again, stumbling over the foreign slur in the phrase. With a grimace, he set up a few stringent mental reminders that he needed to re-familiarize himself with his secondary Home Tongue. His carrier had learned and taught him as much Praxian as she could when he was young, but he hadn’t spoken it for almost half a century, having adopted the deep-seated oscillations of Culumexian.

 _It won’t be of much use here,_ he reminded himself sternly, unable to resist giving rise to the other thought that accompanied it: who knew if he would ever speak his carrier’s Tongue again? Out in the **verriesen** world, he had no one to speak it with. He couldn’t think that way anymore, he decided abruptly, shaking his helm free of it. This **verriesen** world was _his_ world now. He was a part of it and it of him; he needed to stay on task.

He could best translate “ **Kumaikon** ” as something “rising up from below”, but what that meant, he couldn’t be sure. The better question was why Smokescreen spoke of it so secretively with Prowl when they were supposedly pitted against each other. They had made a great show of it when he and Bluestreak were in the room…

Thus far he had decided only one thing: Smokescreen could be given the benefit of the doubt, but Prowl was another story. Strain had nowhere else to be, so as soon as Prowl emerged from the tavern and parted from his brother, Strain followed him at a distance.

He didn’t particularly care if Prowl knew he was being followed or if he didn’t; judging from the path they were taking, the outcome would be the same either way. Strain recognized these streets after just two turns, but he refused to retreat now. He could never have avoided this indefinitely…It was best to get it out of the way.

Prowl led him to the police station, a two-story hexagonal prism dressed in clean silver crystal, symbolizing pride, and dark blue crystals at its base, the symbol of duty. Strain stared at the blue crystals longer than the silver, recalling the agony and shame he had felt as he shattered his similar crystal badge, uncaring when the shards gouged into his hand as he fled from the city and his duty to it.

Prowl had disappeared into the station now, leaving Strain behind. Steeling himself, he strode in after him, but no amount of courage could truly prepare him for the sight that greeted him. He faltered, recoiling ever so slightly as his optics rested on his former partner.

Ordinance stood beside a projector across the busy room, sweeping large hands over it as he rearranged holopics of various convicts. It was something Strain had seen more times than he could count, more often than not as he participated in it, but the smaller mech dancing around Ordinance’s back, pointing out certain suspects and dodging past Ordinance’s doorwings as they twitched in agreement…he was unfamiliar.

 _My replacement_. That realization settled hard and heavy in Strain’s internals and he pressed his lips together tightly, moving further into the open. Prowl had been the one to assign Strain and Ordinance together and no sooner had he done so did Ordinance take charge, handing Strain a data-pad and telling him to follow it strictly so he wouldn’t be in the way. After only a quintun of this, Strain had offered him quite the surprise by taking the newest pad, snapping it cleanly in half and handing one side back to him.

_“I’m your partner,” he reminded him. “I’m not meant to be beneath you; you follow the very same rules I do.”_

Once that had been established, they had become close confidants and had gone on to do some of the best work in the station, but clearly Ordinance had been ready to move on. Strain didn’t blame him; instead he followed his example, tearing his optics away and scanning the various closed offices in search of Prowl’s. This drew the attention of the clerk to his left.

“Officer Strain?” the femme gasped, rising to her feet. Strain started at the old title, pivoting in her direction at the same time he began shaking his helm. Despite her habitual addition of “Officer”, her hand was on her sidearm and Strain felt a prickle down his backstrut, taking half a step back.

“There’s no need for that,” he assured her in a low voice. “Lieutenant Prowl is expecting me.” It wasn’t quite the truth, but she seemed to accept it within the realm of reason and gestured to her senior’s office, one down from the back wall. Nodding his thanks, Strain assumed the impassive lack of care that he was famous for and began what felt like a long, long journey. As he dodged around his former coworkers, he could hear the questions being thrown in his wake, but he didn’t bother to address any of them. In his peripheral vision, he saw Ordinance glance up sharply, his expression causing his current partner to fall silent.

“Strain…” Ordinance growled in a pedal tone. “Strain, what’re you doin’ here?”

Strain gave him the smallest of glances, inclining his helm. “I’m about to find out,” he stated softly before closing the distance with Prowl’s door.

“I was wondering when you would come in,” Prowl remarked with a sigh as the door slid closed behind Strain. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in reminiscing with the others.”

“Perhaps another time,” Strain mused, withdrawing a jar from subspace and setting it on Prowl’s desk. “I dropped by Clutch’s Rush and he wanted me to pass these to you.” He couldn’t suppress a knowing smile when Prowl’s doorwings twitched in embarrassment. “He seems fond of you.”

“Only because Bluestreak and I would visit his shop from time to time as sparklings. Most often, it was Bluestreak’s idea,” Prowl retorted a bit hastily as he took the jar of rust-sticks and set it off to the side, folding his hands on the desktop. Sobering, he looked Strain up and down, brushing aside the small talk. “What are you doing here, Strain?”

“Dropping the jar off, obviously.”

“I mean to ask what you’re doing in _Praxus_.”

Strain shifted with some unease, optics flickering around the room’s walls. The prestigious awards didn’t hold much interest for him, but his optics lingered on the holopics. _Smokescreen is in most of these. Clearly they were close…so if they have fallen out like Smokescreen told me, why hasn’t Prowl taken these down?_ “Don’t I have a right to be in my sire’s city?” he countered at last.

“As much as it pains me, you’re a free mech with all of your free rights, but why would you return to a city you were so anxious to leave? You made it clear when you ran that you had no ties you cared about here.”

“That isn’t true,” Strain snapped. Once Prowl had fallen silent, Strain fidgeted again, processing Prowl’s question a second time. “I was unsure,” he managed at last. “I _remain_ unsure…of my…purpose. Now that I’m a free mech, what am I supposed to do with that freedom, with that free _time?_ ”

Prowl snorted lightly at that. “It seems the Culumexians’ craving for work has rubbed off on you.” He was about to add something when his comm. link trilled. “This is Prowl. I beg your pardon? Where?!” Ex-venting sharply as he hung up, the lieutenant sprang out of his seat. “Strain, I can’t help it if you think you’re bored and frankly I don’t want _or_ need to help. Our arrangement was mutually beneficial but I thought it was understood between us that I am not your friend. By all accounts, Smokescreen is. Go to him for reassurance of your value or go somewhere else. Where is up to you.” Thus resolved, he left Strain alone in his office.

Strain didn’t waste any time going back home, but once he arrived, he was faced with the reality that his home felt just as empty as his spark, as the rest of his life. Listlessly he wandered through the rooms, thinking of the many things he had done and been in this place. What could he be now? Prowl’s words hurt in a way that Strain hadn’t expected; they had revealed in no unclear terms what he had been feeling ever since he’d returned: he felt let down, out of place. Praxus and its inhabitants had changed, but not nearly as much as he had, and that was a discouraging thought. He had only ever fit in with a select few and now they were gone.

Seized with a sudden need, he took up a data pad, clearing whatever had been on its screen and staring at the blinking cursor. Venting shallowly, he looked up at his surroundings, at everything he knew and everything he was missing, and then swallowed hard.

**_Carrier:_ **

**_I miss you. I’m not sure you could begin to fathom how much. Right now, I feel more alone than I ever have been and after so many vorns of lying and betraying my pace, that’s saying a lot. I know you’ll never receive this, but no matter where you were—or are—I have always been able to talk to you. No one else seems to be on my side here…Those I thought to be aren’t telling me the truth. You never lied to me. You never tried to “spare me” the truth, no matter how harsh, but the way you told it also softened the blow. Why can’t there be others like you?_ **

He stirred from recharge the next morning with a flare in his spark and EM field. Anger was often the second emotion and now he was quite certain of it; more than that, he needed to act on it. Right now, it was his purpose.

He was unsurprised to find Smokescreen at the very same Praxus Hold ’Em table in the tavern, but that didn’t last long; Strain approached, unceremoniously drawing Smokescreen’s chair away from the table.

“Ah, Strain…” Smokescreen glanced over his shoulder, puzzled but otherwise unfazed as he was dragged with his chair out of the game. “Where are we going?”

“Outside,” Strain deadpanned. “I want to speak with you about a private matter.” As soon as they had reemerged into the sunlight, he stated bluntly, “I believe I’ve discovered the reason you and Prowl are at odds.”

Languidly Smokescreen rose, turning to sit opposite the chair and fold his arms on its back. “Oh, that. I’m sorry you had to see that yesterday; it wasn’t what I was hoping for as your welcome back into Praxus.”

“I believe I witnessed more than you’d like, Smokescreen. You and Prowl are at odds to cover up your covert operations.” As Smokescreen’s optics drained of color, Strain narrowed his, spitting out, “Did you think you couldn’t trust me after so long apart? Did you think I had changed enough to be blind? Clearly _you’ve_ changed; I confided in you, I thought _better_ of you, but if you’re lying to me—”

“Strain, you just came out of a long undercover assignment. I’m trying to protect you,” Smokescreen muttered, one of his doors flicking nervously.

“Don’t! I don’t want and have never asked for your—”

“I’m trying to protect you,” Smokescreen spoke over him firmly, “because I don’t want you involved in another assignment.” Strain blinked, trailing off, and Smokescreen gave him a rueful, crooked smile. “That’s right. I _had_ to lie to you, my friend, even when you were telling me the truth.”

“You’re…on assignment?” Strain questioned what he already knew. Smokescreen’s smile grew at the same time it saddened and Strain half-turned away, planting his hands on his hips. “And _he_ is your handler?”

“Yes. I guess I should’ve known you’d sense it, given everything that’s just happened with you, but I thought I’d try to delay it as long as I could. One night seems to be the limit.” Getting to his feet a second time, Smokescreen motioned for Strain to walk with him. “Prowl will blow _several_ fuses if he finds out that you know…Actually he might just self-implode, but since I know you and your nosiness so well, I’ll tell you anyway and hope it doesn’t get back to him.”

“It won’t, not by me,” Strain swore softly.

“Alright. I’m one of a few assigned to a group called the **Kumaikon**. They’re a group of fairly low-caste bots who are interested in… _integration_ with the high castes, through a series of unfortunate events. I’ve been tasked with finding out about those events beforehand. A certain mutual friend of ours knows that if he reported it now, he’d be written off as paranoid.”

Thinking back to Prowl’s sudden rush out of his office, Strain nodded wordlessly.

“So the little meet-and-greets we have are on the side.” Smokescreen lightly bumped Strain’s back with one of his wings, steering him closer to his side. “The Kums are getting restless, though…hastier. They’ve recently lost a branch of their friends that stretched out beyond the city, in the realm of the…ah, smaller frames.” The gambler’s doorwing nudged him again, meaningfully. “If you know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, Strain knew _exactly_ what that meant.

“Along the way, they’ve been letting middle-caste mechs join their ranks too—ones they can have in their cards once they’re promoted to fill voids left by the unfortunate events,” Smokescreen concluded. “I tell our mutual friend who’s who and what’s what, as much as I can, and leave it to him to do the rest.”

“So what you’re saying,” Strain ventured, “is that the low castes are recruiting the middle castes before they become high castes…so they can have easier access to the high castes they want to dispose of? That seems rather overly complicated.”

Smokescreen chuckled. “You’re telling me.” After a minute of silence, he sobered, shaking his helm. “The high-casters who’re gone now…they were good people. People Prowl knew, people Bluestreak _would_ have known if he’d gotten the chance. They deserved better. I’m trying to do better by whoever’s left.”

“…You should,” Strain assured him lowly, trying to shove aside his sensation of guilt and regret for ever doubting this mech. “It’s a chance I didn’t get.”

“I know, **men aalha** ,” Smokescreen agreed gently. “And that’s why I’m going to need your help. I’m sure that if the two of us meet and greet, like I do with our mutual friend, you could give me some advice on keeping my cover, advice that doesn’t involve the words, ‘Consult the manual’, which I hear too often— _much_ too often.”

 _He’s trying to give_ me _another chance_ , Strain realized. _He’s trying to help me move past what I had to do, to help me see that it was worth it…Primus, I did nothing to deserve this_. But if it meant he could do better by this friend than he had by his pace…

“I would be honored.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Men aalha: "My friend"


	5. Chapter 5

_Now. Now is the time._

Chromo opened his optics and sat up as soon as he was sure most of his campmates were recharging. Rising gingerly to his feet, he padded out of their recharging station, scaled several small platforms and emerged to the upper slums of Praxus. There he paused, venting deeply, and was greeted with the stale odor of coagulated rust and oil, but to him it seemed like the sweetest of perfumes. It meant that, if only for a few precious minutes, he had escaped the stifling atmosphere of the low-caste mechs below.

Chromo was a middle-class mech, one who had been indicted into the **Kumaikon** several diuns ago. He had agreed to their call out of simple need; he had been promised a promotion, one that could bring credits to his name and—more importantly—to his sire’s. His sire was the only family he had, but his systems were failing, the budget with them. Chromo intended to do something about that and the **Kumaikon** had told him of their plight with the castes.

“Why don’t we help each other?” they had suggested. He had agreed without hesitation, resting assured that they would all get the help they desperately needed.

At least, that was what he had told the mechs inviting him; that was what they continued to believe. Officer Chromium had _also_ been indicted out of need, the need of the public. That meant more to him than anything else and it was times like these, staring up at the towers silhouetted against the moonlight, that he was allowed to remind himself of that. Nevertheless, he couldn’t linger. Pulling a data projector out of subspace, he opened it, peering at the coordinates for his next rendezvous with his commanding officer.

“Where’re you off to, Compass?”

Chromo halted immediately at the familiar nickname—which he still found it hard to get used to—and added a slouch to his backstrut, darkening the code projector he’d been examining. _Blast_. By sheer misfortune, one of the **Kumaikon** members had stirred from recharge.

Summoning up a different speech pattern, Chromo turned and met optics with Railway, the senior officer on site. Cursing again in his CPU, Chromo replied, “Jus’ needed to be out in the fresh air.” Already he felt more constricted; among policemechs who knew of him, Railway could be compared to something _less_ than a retro-rat, though he had the intuitiveness comparable to someone on the High Council.

“You like fresh air now?” Railway questioned, orange optics cycling, zeroing in on him. “You usually say you get cold out in the open. This is Praxus, after all.”

Chromo shrugged slowly, forcing a buzzy-looking half-smile. “Well, th’ way I’m charged, I don’ think I’ll feel it.”

“So come back to your berth.”

Though he kept his expression in check, Chromo was taken aback by the subtle testing tone in Railway’s urge. He shuffled his feet slightly, shrugging again and mumbling something in a pedal tone.

After a klik or two of silence, Railway commented, “It’s pretty dark out. What type of light was that you had?”

 _Primus tricurse you_ , Chromo seethed mutely, subspacing the precious code projector as he folded one hand behind his back.

“Well, see, this little light on m’ arm…” He trailed off, beaming as he flashed the biolight on his left forearm. “It goes blue!”

Railway smiled thinly, taking a step closer and casting a shadow over Chromo as he mused, “I’m going to wager, Compass, that the other one is silver. Yes?”

Chromium had heard from other policemechs who had come out of undercover missions, had heard from their mouths about the cold fear trickling in to close around one’s spark when one might think they’ve been compromised. He could feel it closing in now as he tried to stare as uncomprehendingly as possible at Railway. “What’re you talkin’ about, mech?”

“Blue and silver,” Railway repeated, his undertone taking on a growl. “The colors of the Chop Shops.”

Suppressing a flinch at the derogatory term for policemechs, Chromo scoffed, throwing up his hands. “Heh, thanks, Railer, I thought we were _friends_!”

Railway closed the distance, seizing Chromium’s shoulders and squeezing tightly enough to make dents as he steered him toward a corner of the makeshift camp Chromium had been avoiding since he’d arrived, known simply as the Outlands. His back was slammed against a slab mounted vertically in the ground, his knees brought underneath him, and his arms twisted around it before being locked into stasis cuffs.

“You got this all wrong, Railway,” Chromo protested, struggling and feeling the crust of energon stains grate on his armor. “I’m not who you think I am! I’m not one o’ them!”

“Don’t keep up the ruse on _my_ account,” Railway hissed. “Speak naturally, you **::freening::** bootleg!”

Chromium hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. He certainly hadn’t been schooled enough on how this scenario would go. He was only a messenger; he had never expected to reach this point. Protocol, protocol…Rifling through the first CPU files that popped up, he found nothing to guide him out of this dilemma. One of his acquaintances from his Academy days, a fiery femme named Backscatter, had stated that good police officers never planned as if they expected to fail.

 _Untrue_ , Chromium now refuted that memory before refocusing on Railway, who was staring down at him in some sort of intimidation technique. Chromium decided to continue at least part of his ruse, obliging the larger mech by hunching in on himself, glancing between Railway’s **Kumaikon** insignia and the ground. He was creating a new role to hide behind, Chromium knew, but how Railway would perceive it—as either a cocky young bot realizing he was out of his depth or a runner unsure of how to defend himself—that was entirely unknowable.

 _Note: the supposed ‘adolescence’ of my frame appearance can be useful_ , he scrawled on his drives, shoving it into a port that was out of the way when Railway suddenly sprang at him with speed Chromium hadn’t expected from such a large mech.

Railway’s left hand closed around Chromium’s throat, fingers rooting into the cables, pressuring. Chromium’s feet pedaled in a delayed reaction as his backstrut screeched against the slab, his frame unfolding. He was hanging in Railway’s hand about three feet in the air, Chromium realized, all too aware of how _wrong_ this position was. Somehow he forced himself to remain loose, even when Railway spoke in a hushed, almost gentle voice.

“Have you heard of Vitality?”

That was not among the questions Chromium was expecting, but he released a strangled hum of acknowledgement. Railway almost smiled, his fingertips tightening, pressuring the sensory cluster at the start of Chromium’s backstrut. Chromium no longer had to force limpness; he was losing feeling in his limbs.

“Ol’ Vital, the first subversive we found, got his voice box was ripped from his throat and then crushed before his optics. A few minutes after that, he lost those optics too. Then he lost his _helm_.” Chromium felt the tips of his feet brush ground as Railway brought him down so their faces were together, speaking through bared teeth. “Speak up now, you glitch, and you better be singing a different song or Primus help you, you’ll suffer the same.”

Everything in his training spoke against it, but his vocalizer managed to speak louder. “You…you would bring the fury of Praxian law enforcement down on you and everyone in your employment,” Chromium choked out.

Grinning savagely, Railway nodded with something akin to approval. “I knew it.” Without any warning, Chromium was let loose for a shocking return to the ground. A swift punch to the face slammed him into the post and for a long series of kliks he was only aware of energon trickling down his throat.

“What’s this, Railway?” A familiar voice questioned, bringing Chromium out of his daze and also extinguishing the hope that this was somehow a dream. “Why’d you wake me up for this? And why do you have Compass here in the Outlands?”

Railway outmaneuvered the question. “Why do you call him that, ‘Compass’?”

“You call him that too.”

“Humor me.”

Chromium was struggling to sort out the banter his audials were taking in and the pain alerts crowding his processor.

“Well, it’s because he’s a good runner—snappy, good at finding his way, gets the job done quickly.”

“Really.” Railway sounded entirely unconvinced. “What exactly is the job he gets done so quickly?”

“You’re asking me? I just relay the orders from our beloved superiors, who relay them from _theirs_. You know this just as well as I do; what’s with the interrogation?”

“It’s a test,” Railway spat. “For both him _and_ you, Scree. I’ve just been informed that your little runner here is an undercover policemech!”

Chromium’s optics trailed upward, focusing on the face of his fellow undercover bot. Smokescreen had been his strength during these pressing diuns, defending him from the scorn and harassment of the (many) higher-ups under the guise of being his employer. Then Smokescreen himself would laugh at him, insult him and shove him around, cementing Chromo’s role as his subordinate. Chromium always understood and accepted it. It was their shared duty to behave this way.

Smokescreen managed to pull off disbelief flawlessly. He blinked, opened and closed his mouth a few times and then examined Chromo. “No, no…One of the Chop Shops in _my_ crew?” he grunted disdainfully. “I’d know better than that!”

“Would you?” Railway accused. “Perhaps you’re so proud of his work for you that _you’re_ the one wearin’ the blinders!”

Smokescreen whirled around, a blaster seamlessly materializing in his hand which he then jammed into Railway’s throat cables. “Hey, you slaggin’ knock-off, you may be a higher rank than I am, but you know I won’t hesitate to offline you here and now if you say that again,” the gambler snarled, optics flaring with bitterly cold blue light.

“If you want proof, ‘Chromo’ here can give it to you,” Railway hissed, unfazed by the threat as he slapped Chromium upside the helm. “He gave it to me easily enough.”

Smokescreen peered at him warily, demanding, “If that’s the case, why don’t you care to share?”

“Because, Smokescreen, I want you to hack him.” Chromium’s energon ran cold as Railway smiled, optics glittering with malice. “Not only will you catch onto his _real_ job here, you’ll find out whatever he’s leaked.”

Smokescreen’s doorwings flared, slowly and deliberately, before twitching back down—a sure sign that he was trying to control his temper. Railway answered with a sarcastic flick of his own and Smokescreen finally lowered his blaster, rounding on Chromium. The younger mech swallowed, tasting energon, and his own doorwings fell reluctantly, submissively, but trustingly.

 _Do what you have to_.

This permission didn’t seem to ease Smokescreen’s disinclination. Instead of uncoiling his terminal interface cable, he grumbled a few choice words under his vents and shook his helm. “I haven’t given him any crucial data about our cause, just base work,” he retorted. “I _planned_ on promoting him to missions from the grand lieutenants later this quintun, but if he’s compromised, I’ll find someone else for that. Frankly, Railway, I’m not in the mood to interface with a runner’s net just because you think he’s leaking. Aren’t you the one who’s always saying runners aren’t smart enough for something like that?”

After a long, tense silence, Railway’s mouth twisted and he jerked a nod. “Yes, but a runner might just be _stupid_ enough for something like that. I can see it, Scree, even if you can’t.” Moving his gaze down to the motionless, defiantly glaring Chromo, he laughed. “You shouldn’t take life so seriously, Chop Shop. It isn’t permanent.” So saying, he snatched the blaster from Smokescreen’s hand and let off several shots.

Once he was finished, he waved away the acrid smoke of burning energon with one hand and tapped the blaster against Smokescreen’s arm with the other. Smokescreen took it without a word and Railway smiled brightly at him. He earned no smile in return, but brushed that aside. “I have some business to attend to. Clean this up, if you would, and let me know when the next runner is ready to be promoted!”

Leaving Smokescreen behind with the mess, Railway made his way back underground, weaving through the rows of mechs repairing tools, computers, and weapons. All of them would soon profit the cause, he reminded himself contentedly, pausing to compliment one of the runner’s half-finished bombs before moving into the backroom, where some of the other lieutenants had convened.

“Hello, Margin,” he greeted his sweetspark, nuzzling her right doorwing with his own before sitting down and pouring himself a flute of medium-grade. “What have you, Torchlight, and Wayfair learned of Smokescreen’s new friend?”

“They met again earlier,” Margin replied, folding her arms as she moved around their table. “Smokescreen knows enough to avoid being tacked with a listening device, so we couldn’t hear their conversation, but they seem like close confidants.”

With an exaggerated sigh and a roll of the optics, Railway enunciated, “That isn’t our main concern. If Scree has a new friend outside our ranks, I want to be sure he wasn’t sent by the great and powerful Cousin Prowl. Who _is_ the boxy freak?”

“Smokescreen met with him of his own accord,” Wayfair rumbled from the corner, sliding a holopic projector across the table. Railway scowled distastefully at the picture of Smokescreen and the freak, walking close together as though deep in conversation.

“His new friend is, in fact, an _old_ friend,” Torchlight added. “There are records of the knockoff as Strain…”

“That sounds familiar,” Railway muttered. “Wasn’t there a mech named Strain with our little Culumexian friends? The ones who got caught?”

“Maybe,” Margin concurred. “But more importantly, we saw _this_ Strain going to the police station with Prowl. He used to be one of them.”

Railway’s eyebrows and doorwings rose, smug but unsurprised. “Ahh…” he crooned quietly, swirling a finger through the holopic and blurring its figures. “Then it seems Smokescreen’s blinders are lifting at last.”

—

At the excited whoops and cries of her sparkling, Evanescence looked up from tomorrow’s schedule long enough to smile. “Don’t go too far!” she called again, earning a momentary pout from the little one before she returned to her play, chasing a holographic sphere through the crystal park.

It wouldn’t be long now, Evanescence decided with satisfaction, making a few notes in her planner at the end of the quintun. Before the end of the diun, she and her family would be packed and prepared to move into the Assembly suites for the beginning of their new lives. Her creation had been going on for ages now about how high up they would be, how it would feel as if they were flying, and Evanescence would be lying if she said she wasn’t just as excited.

She was also fairly nervous, but no one in her family needed to know about that. Her new job as a record-keeper would be a large responsibility; she would be aiding and responding to one of the intercity representatives, making sure that everything he did to ensure good relations was thoroughly documented. Evanescence was a femme who paid attention to detail and her sparkmate had agreed that she was suited for the job and it for her.

“They couldn’t have picked a finer femme,” he had whispered to her last night, bumping their chevrons together affectionately.

“And I couldn’t have picked a finer, more supportive mech,” she had purred in return.

“Well, I should hope you wouldn't!”

These warm thoughts trailed off when Evanescence saw her little one come to a stop in front of a mech who had captured the hologram sphere the femme was playing with. He was made up entirely of sharp edges and dark, scuffed paint, clearly a low-caster. Doorwings lifting warily, Evanescence rose with them to her feet, optics narrowing as the stranger began gesturing to the sphere, spinning it demonstratively in his hand.

While that seemed innocent enough, she certainly wasn’t comfortable with her femmeling talking to a mech she could barely see. Evanescence opened her mouth to call her creation away, but before she could, she gasped at a sudden sharp pain in her neck. She stumbled, pinwheeling her arms for balance as her vision spun, and slumped back onto the bench. White static fell over her darkening optics; it was the last light she saw.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Carrier:_ **

**_I’m writing to you again, obviously, and I still remain unsure of my reasons. I can’t say I’m taking comfort in your companionship, but it’s still a reassuring thought that somehow you might know I’m thinking of you. You ought to know what I’ve been doing in your absence._ **

**_It’s been a quintun now since I returned to Praxus and in most ways, it’s been uneventful. (I don’t have very many “events” to attend, after all. How did you cope when we lived here and you were bored?) In other ways, it’s been one of the most trying quintuns I’ve had in a long time—not physically but emotionally. I’ve missed my friends…my sole friend…and now that I’ve returned to him, I see he’s changed. He’s become more like me, to the point where he’s living my life._ **

**_Smokescreen asked for my help and advice and I’ve been amassing something of a list for him, but in the process, it’s reminded me of things I’d rather forget, things I came here to forget…_ **

**_At the top of my list for him is a warning not to become attached. Smokescreen may be shrewd and manipulating at his ~~worst~~ best, but sometimes he can’t help himself; he begins to feel a kind of sympathetic affection for the people he’s using. I feel I shouldn’t stand for that. It can only lead to shame and regret for what he has to do to them and I don’t want him to suffer that. At his core, Smokescreen is softer than he seems and for someone to look at him with such betrayal and hatred, the way my pace looked at me…No. Together we can prevent that._ **

**_I’m also working hard to ensure Prowl doesn’t know about my new involvement. Smokescreen’s right to assume that his cousin’s temper would get the better of him if he found out. Even when I worked with him as a policemech, Prowl and I have had something of a distaste for each other. I don’t hold him with the esteem others do, and he underestimates me because of what he sees. Perhaps we’re both blind, but I intend to keep him blind._ **

**_Speaking of blindness, I’ve been thinking about what Smokescreen told me about the Kumaikon and their goals, their plans to covertly assimilate into the high caste. It makes me wonder why. All my life, I’ve known that I’m different, but my friend’s words have made me watch the Praxians who pass by on the street and now I’m seeing that they think of each other the way they think of me. They treat each other differently, they judge each other differently, based on the ranks they hold. I’m tempted to tell them that they should be grateful that they are only one thing: Praxians. If I were one thing—Praxian or Culumexian, and not both—I would treat them all as equals. They all seem the same to me._ **

**_Culumexians at least had a way to frame caste in a functional light. I was quite content as a quanidre because in Culumexian society, all one need have is a rank. It doesn’t matter what that rank is; if you are in a pace, you are accepted._ **

**_Was that why you stayed in Praxus to raise me? Because you were rankless, paceless? Even if no pace would have deserved you, you would have made a prime pace-mate…better than I ever was._ **

—

Sighing deeply, Prowl folded his doorwings and his hands, leaned his chevron against the latter, shuttered his optics and just _vented_. He could feel pins of pressure stabbing up and down his backstrut, reminding him of every agonizing minute he had spent in his office. He had been here for a full orn and the better part of the night, rifling through the casefile as though something might appear that he had missed.

 _I requested this,_ he reminded himself wearily, blinking his optics open and glancing at the familiar faces floating on a holopic projector nearby. His gaze lingered on Potshot. Of all the high-casters who had been lost thus far, Prowl had known him the best. They had greeted each other at various formal galas many times and more often than not, they would sit together to refuel.

Potshot was a mech Prowl had gotten along with easily, an introvert with an appreciation for good work and a near-lacerating wit that most didn’t have the privilege of seeing. He had been the only Assembly representative to date who could boast that he’d made Prowl laugh and that…that was something important, something Prowl intended to repay by finding the cause of his death. Once he had received the call about the explosion, Prowl had been adamant that he be assigned to the case and had predictably been given what he asked for.

Though Prowl had rightly suspected that Potshot’s death was more than a spark around an energon line, he wasn’t sure how or if it tied into the other investigation he was holding. He had called on Potshot’s sparkmate, asking her why Potshot might have been a target.

“He…he didn’t talk much about his work,” she told him, trembling and clenching her hands together tightly. “But he d-did mention being late for an important vote because of the airway closing.” Burying her face in her hands, she moaned, “Why, why did the airway have to be closed?!”

It was out of nothing but guilt that Prowl decided not to tell her that _he_ had been the one to request the airway’s close. It had saved three other lives from the **Kumaikon** , but she would only care about what it had cost. That was a calculation Prowl had no right to make.

It wasn’t long after that when he received another call about Evanescence. He hadn’t known her at all; in fact, the only reason he knew _of_ her was because she was meant to be promoted. She had never gotten the chance, stabbed in the neck and left to die in the crystal park while her sparkling was no more than twenty yards away. The thought of what the little femme had seen made Prowl’s internals roil and since then he had confirmed with Smokescreen that she had, in fact, been a target.

During that meeting, Prowl had immediately sensed that something off. Smokescreen seemed ill at ease, making optic contact as little as possible, his features strained, doorwings drooping and twitching a little more with each passing minute, as if he was torn between feeling defeated or irate. Prowl opted not to call Smokescreen out on it; long ago he had learned that if his cousin didn’t want to speak of something, there was nothing anyone could do to pry it out of him. That was why, as Prowl turned to leave, Smokescreen’s mumbled confession caught him like a blow from behind.

“They didn’t just kill her, Prowl; two nights ago, they killed Chromium.” Prowl had pivoted back towards him, mouth open speechlessly, and Smokescreen tersely shook his helm. “He wasn’t careful enough and he compromised himself. They—they wanted me to hack him to see what he had spilled and when I didn’t, Railway killed him instead. He used my blaster, Prowl, and I couldn’t do _anything_ about it except clean him up and bury him. I found this in his subspace.” So saying, he pressed Chromium’s badge into Prowl’s hand and wandered off, melting into the shadows before his cousin could find anything to say.

Only a few officers had known and been involved in Prowl’s investigation. Chromium had no family, but telling his partner of his demise was just as hard. Now, as another morning dawned, Prowl rose, pushing aside the medium-grade cube that he hadn’t touched all night and subspacing the holopic projector. He was supposed to question a witness to Potshot’s death: the unknowing deliverymech who had given him the bomb.

Blindlight was waiting for him in one of the interrogation rooms. Why he had been sent there, Prowl didn’t know—until he actually stepped into the room with him. With one glance at his doorwings, Prowl could see that the young mid-class mech was exceedingly nervous. The clerk outside must have suspected Blindlight wouldn’t say anything out in the open. Optics narrowing slightly, Prowl maintained a cordial tone as he introduced himself and sat across from the witness.

“So, Blindlight, would you mind explaining what happened just prior to the explosion?” he questioned, poised with a data pad and stylus. Blindlight peeked at them warily before offering a quick shrug.

“Um, s-sure. I…was supposed to deliver an important box to Potshot’s house, but a femme answered the door instead and said she hadn’t ordered the package, that he must have and that he had already left for work.”

“Yes, he was late for—”

“—a vote about low-caste and mid-caste living conditions,” Blindlight finished for Prowl. The lieutenant looked up from his data pad and the deliverymech shrugged again, doors flicking. “So I ran after him. I thought maybe I could catch up, since the airway was closed and he would be walking. I saw him, gave him his box, and went on my way. A minute later, he…he…”

“He _exploded_ ,” Prowl enunciated, carefully noting how Blindlight flinched and glanced away. “Alright, thank you for that explanation. Did the box say who it was from?”

Blindlight paused. “Well…no. It just said, ‘To my sweetspark, with love.’”

“Interesting.” Setting the data pad aside, Prowl tilted his helm, keeping his doorwings under firm, smooth control as he remarked innocently, “But that strikes me as odd; it doesn’t make sense! Why would his sparkmate say she hadn’t ordered the package if that’s what the note said?”

“How should I know?” the younger mech stammered. “Maybe there was someone else.”

“Oh, I suspect there was,” Prowl concurred, a brief, tight smile crossing his face before dropping completely. “Tell me, Blindlight, how did you know what the vote was about? Low-caste living conditions, hmm? I don’t think that would be something Potshot would share with a deliverymech in his last minute of life.”

Optics widening, Blindlight held up his hands apprehensively. “I—I was just—”

“Briefed on the vote beforehand?” Prowl supplied, rising from his chair and casting a shadow over the tabletop. “Clearly this wasn’t just about doing your job, was it? Or you would have simply sent the package to his office. No, you had to be sure the box made it _into_ Potshot’s hands for your work to be done.”

“No, sir, you have this all wrong—”

“Do I?” Prowl spat. “Then tell me why you were in such a hurry to leave after you gave it to him! You didn’t even make him sign for it, did you? What story did you tell him to make him take it from you?”

“I was only doing what I was told!” Blindlight protested in dismay, shrinking away from the flurry of questions.

“I’m not inclined to believe you! You were the one who murdered him, so _you_ must have been the one who dreamt this up. You must have _wanted_ to do it.”

“No—”

“You built that bomb and you put it in his hands and you scurried away like the retro-rat you are, knowing what would happen and never caring. You put that note on the box, knowing he would never suspect it for what it was.”

“I didn’t—They—!”

“As soon as you got to a safe distance, you probably turned around and watched, didn’t you?! Did it make you happy that twenty-three other innocents were wounded in the blast? Did you like the fact that there was nothing left of Potshot in the end?! You must have been very pleased with yourself; I’ll bet you went and got yourself a nice drink, knowing that your grand plan had gone just the way you wanted!”

“It wasn’t _my plan!_ ” Blindlight howled, slamming his open hands on the table. Prowl straightened silently, knowing that he had won, and Blindlight ex-vented harshly. “He had me make the bomb and deliver it, but it wasn’t my plan.”

“‘He’ is a **Kumaikon** operative, I assume,” Prowl offered stonily, earning a fleeting look of surprise and then defeat.

“Yes…Torchlight. He told me that if I gave Potshot the box and got away with it, he would give me a cure for my carrier. She’s got at least five nano-viruses and they’re killing her!” Blindlight swallowed hard, wringing his hands on the tabletop. “Now that you know, I’m probably never going to get that cure and she’s going to end up dead.” Narrowing watery optics at the policemech, he huffed shakily, “So thanks a lot for that.”

Prowl twitched at the words, clenching his fists for a burning nanoklik before wrenching his holopic projector out of subspace, turning it on and slamming it onto the table between them. “You want to know who else is dead because of you and your employers?!” he snapped, stabbing a finger through one of the pictures. “Potshot! He had a sparkmate, a femme you looked in the optics!” His hand moved, striking again. “Evanescence! She had a sire, three siblings, a sparkmate and a femmeling!” Again. “Chromium! He was an officer of the law, a friend and a partner!” His hand joined the other as a fist on the tabletop as he leaned forward, demanding, “Do you have _no shame?_ Did you ever think about the other families you were breaking?”

“I was desperate!” Blindlight protested mournfully.

“Desperation is no excuse. You may not have liked any of your other choices, but those choices were there for you and you threw them away,” Prowl snapped, rounding the table and hauling Blindlight out of the chair. “Along with the rest of your life. You’re under arrest for the murder of Potshot of Praxus.”

—

Torchlight glanced once again between his chronometer and the doors of the police station. Shaking his helm, he tsked and smiled ruefully up at his partner. Wayfair stared stonily back, raising an eyebrow in a wordless question.

“It’s been too long since he went in,” Torchlight informed him, feigning regret as he sighed, “It seems Blindlight won’t be delivering that cure to his carrier anytime soon. What say we put her out of her misery?”


	7. Chapter 7

Out of all of the **Kumaikon’s** victims, Smokescreen had known Chromium the best. They had worked together for almost a full vorn and Smokescreen had become rather fond of him— _too_ fond, he discovered; he was making a habit of startling out of recharge, Railway’s blaster shots still ringing in his audials. Smokescreen pressed a hand to his optics, ex-vented, and stilled his doorwings, glancing over his shoulder to be sure no one had noticed their disturbed shaking.

Chromium would have noticed, but he never would again.

With a weak, regretful huff of laughter, Smokescreen thought back to when they had first met. The only reason he had gotten to know the true mech behind the “Chromo” alias was because he had identified him as a subversive. Chromium wasn’t as bad as some undercover officers, but in Smokescreen’s opinion he wasn’t nearly as practiced as he should have been. Such a big assignment was meant for older and wiser mechs and the fates of the past officers had proved it. Vitality, for example…

Vitality had been someone Smokescreen had actively disliked; he had excelled and taken pride in being fiercely independent, refusing Smokescreen’s offers of help in favor of going on alone. In the end, he had driven Smokescreen too far away and there was no help that could have reached him in time. Even if he had disliked ol’ Vital, the mech had never deserved that.

 _There was nothing I could do,_ Smokescreen had often reminded himself. He continued to repeat that very same phrase, but now it hurt. Chromium had been young, too young, and Smokescreen wasn’t handling his death as well as he ought to be. He was thoroughly distracted, stray processor threads running through the execution over and over again, analyzing, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. Clearly he couldn’t forget it, even in recharge. He felt like he was constantly second-guessing himself.

Chromium had given him permission to hack him. If he had, would it have saved his life? Smokescreen’s tanks turned at the thought. Hacking a mech, rifling through his thoughts and impulses like sorting a toolbox…it was a ghastly, violating procedure, one he would gladly never repeat. The fallout would have made Chromium wish he hadn’t. But he would still be _alive_.

It was times like these that Smokescreen remembered why he was here—not to play with the criminal masses, but to fight them, rip them apart from the inside, so no one would ever have to endure that kind of torture again.

Rising to his feet, Smokescreen ex-vented a second time, taking up a data pad and typing a note for the senior officers, explaining that he would be gone for the morning and most of the afternoon, securing more weapons. As he moved toward the platforms leading to the upper slums, he could sense the nervous, electrifying tension throughout the camp. A similar unease rippled through him when he saw the senior officers scanning the camp with grim faces. Railway briefly met optics with Smokescreen, who waved half-sparkedly in acknowledgement. Railway offered him a grim smile in return.

It was no wonder he was under stress, Smokescreen mused; last night’s misfortune was on the mind of everyone in the camp. An assassination attempt on Forethought, a councilmech’s aide, had failed; just as the vibroblade was swung at his neck, Forethought had bent down and was only grazed by the searing heat. Once he spun around and realized he was being attacked, he’d scrambled away and disappeared with the speed of a rhodium-rabbit.

Smokescreen wished he could take the credit for that good fortune, but it seemed the runner they sent had simply made a mistake. As it turned out, he didn’t see that runner among the others now. Pressing his lips tightly together, Smokescreen added that life to his mental tally of what he had to make up for.

—

“So that’s why you haven’t contacted me for the past few orns, why you wanted to meet here,” Strain concluded now as Smokescreen ended his explanation.

Leaning against the right-hand wall of the Critical Junction restaurant, Smokescreen nodded tensely, faltering for a minute or two before admitting, “Prowl and I have worked together before; I’ve even been a subversive for him before, but not like this. It’s always been mild mutinies, small gangs who didn’t have any idea what they were doing, but the **Kumaikon** have planned everything and they just don’t care. Another mech almost died last night—thank Primus for his impeccable timing—and sometimes I can’t help but wonder if what I’m doing is worth it. Am I even doing anything?”

“You are,” Strain assured him firmly, briefly squeezing his shoulder before Smokescreen twitched away. “You’re acting by your wits to keep the death count as low as possible; no one could ask more than that.”

A surge of frustration clanked Smokescreen’s doorwings roughly against the wall as he growled, “No, I’m living by _Prowl’s_ wits. He doesn’t want me to take any _definitive_ action like I want to, like I’ve _always_ wanted to. He thinks it’s too dangerous, but if he had just trusted me to act when the time was right, I might have been able to save Chromium. He died by my blaster, Strain, while I was standing right there. How am I supposed to just accept that?”

Revealing his data pad from subspace, Strain suggested, “I believe this will help. It’s my list of suggestions for…coping with the mission.” Chuckling wryly, he added, “As we both know, I’m a natural at that. But what’s most important, Smokescreen, is that you can’t batter yourself for every death. Maybe Railway moved too quickly. Maybe you were a few inches too far. Maybe you blinked. No matter the cause, sometimes you simply _can’t_ intervene, even when you’re a witness.”

Smokescreen paused, letting this sink in and recalling for a klik or two the reason for Strain’s long-ago escape: through a terrible miscalculation, he had caused several civilian deaths and had been unable to live in Praxus with the grief. Returning those thoughts to their subfolder, he took the offering.

“From the length of this list, I guess you _are_ a natural,” he concurred with a half-smile, the first genuine one of the orn, but it was fleeting as he pushed himself off the wall, subspacing the data pad. “I should probably go. Railway and the others are expecting me to bring back weapons, so I need to find some.” Strain gave him an odd look and after several beats of awkward silence, Smokescreen spread his hands out. “What? Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“You’re in a hurry to leave. Are you…uncomfortable being seen with me out here?” his friend asked warily.

Blinking in surprise, Smokescreen stammered, “What? No, no, not at all. You know I’m not like that, Strain! I wouldn’t treat you that way.”

Strain blinked back, looking somewhat unconvinced. “Then why?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go inside?” Smokescreen nearly pleaded, gesturing at the doors. “Business is slow in the afternoons; we’d probably get drinks right away.”

Scoffing bitterly, Strain shook his helm again. “I sincerely doubt that. The last time I went in, on my first night back, I was refused service, had to pry some energon from the waitron’s hand, and was nearly assaulted by some mechs in the side booth. I’d rather not repeat the experience. It would probably prove more embarrassing for you to be seen with me in there than out here.”

“I’m _not_ embarrassed by you,” Smokescreen protested.

“Prove it. Answer my question. Why are you so ill at ease?”

After a hesitation, the gambler pursed his lips, optics tracing the lines of the ground. “Like you said, I haven’t…felt like myself. I don’t think I will again until the **Kumaikon** are over and done with.”

“Unfortunately that sentiment can’t be helped until they are.”

Folding his arms, Smokescreen went on, “The way I’ve been feeling, the failed hit, and the way the **Kumaikon** were acting this morning, the way Railway looked at me…” He shrugged restlessly, glancing around at the empty street and then back at his friend. “I don’t know. Maybe we should go to the Lonely Stars next time, because I think I might feel better if we weren’t out in the—”

It was just as Strain had suggested: maybe they were too fast, but it was most likely that he blinked. Whatever the reason, when Smokescreen did a double-take, Strain was rolling across the ground, a tangle of raven and gray underneath a larger, blacker frame. To Smokescreen’s left was a bright flash and— _Oh, slag, something’s gone sideways_ —he barely had time to drop before blaster fire sprayed across the wall over his helm. Flinging himself sideways, he heard the laser fire following, new burns to the ground hissing and spitting in his wake. The street was no longer empty.

“Strain!” he hollered. “What the Pit are you— _frag!_ ” There was no time to think; the gunmech was still coming, shots blazing in all directions. Dropping down from a hunch to a crouch, Smokescreen somersaulted around the corner of the building. Strain thrashed until he was upright, clambering over his larger opponent until he was almost on top of the mech’s shoulders, tearing at pieces of armor as he went. As soon as his feet touched the ground again, Strain broke into a sprint.

As soon as he was in range, Smokescreen seized Strain’s nearest arm in a vice-grip and swung him into cover. Folding his doorwings to make himself a smaller target, he took precious kliks to count the number of assailants— _six, seven, eight, ten_ —and then drew his blaster to return fire. One of the attackers let out a strangled cry, spinning out, and Smokescreen recognized him.

“They’re **Kumaikon**!” he barked, glancing over his shoulder. Strain had three more attackers on the ground and had the fourth whipping through the air. With a heavy thud, Strain slammed his captive against the wall and then retracted his arms. _Optics to the front_ , Smokescreen reminded himself, letting off a few more shots as he ordered, “Get out of here while I hold them off.”

“We’re both going; you need to contact Prowl and tell him that your cover is blown!” Strain argued, latching onto him, unmoved when Smokescreen tried to wrench away, only just processing the words as extraneous information. They couldn’t afford to banter; there wasn’t enough _time_.

“Strain—slag it, just go! I’ll be right behind you!” he urged. “Trust me!” Strain made a dismayed, half-formed sound in protest and Smokescreen spun around, propelling him away. “ _Go!_ ” Two more shots struck too close for comfort and Strain growled some Culumexian curse, steeled himself and jerked a nod, bolting.

Smokescreen allowed himself a nanoklik of relief which vanished as soon as his blaster clicked and misfired with a gust of smoke, out of energy. Unarmed, he ran. Mismatched steps echoed behind him, his enemies in pursuit. Lasers hummed and spat mere inches behind him and then a scorching pain through the hinge of his left doorwing blew him sideways.

As he fell, plating dented and scraped away from his arm and leg and sparks spewed from a new gouge in his side. A large caliber round sang through the air and exploded against the ground just behind his helm. The sting of the fragments snapped his mind into action again and he dragged himself upright, reeling as his damaged doorwing misaligned his center of balance. He registered a stream of energon spilling down his back and side and then someone was on top of him, wresting him back as the others closed in. Some of the footsteps passed him, disappearing into the distance—going after Strain.

Gasping, Smokescreen struggled in vain against the arms restraining him until a hand closed around his doorwing and wrenched it sideways, dislocating it. For a klik or two, everything went white and Smokescreen dimly wondered who was screaming until he was backhanded across the face and his cry choked off. It was a glancing blow, demeaning, designed to shut him up. Static dancing at the edges of his vision, Smokescreen lifted his helm to see someone standing over him, silhouetted against the sun. Hazily he could make out the edges of a familiar, serrated smile.

“Railway would like to have a word with you, Smokescreen,” Torchlight informed him cheerfully, the sound of his voice fading in and out through the pain. “Something to do with the company you’re keeping.”

With that he raised his blaster, clearly intending to bring it down hard, but Smokescreen’s optics were already glazing over, darkening. The last he heard was a sigh. _“Ohh, you’re_ _no fun…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeaaaah, I suspect you can guess a couple of people who aren't going to be very happy about this...


	8. Chapter 8

_Run. Run!_

Strain’s spark raced just as quickly as his footsteps, but his thoughts were fairly clear, made sharp with adrenaline. He had been in this situation more times than he cared to count; he knew what to do: he paced himself, trying to keep ahold of his feet, counting every step and losing the count every so often.

He focused on escape. All of his systems burned at the thought of being caught, at the thought of his past catching up with him—and it _was_ catching up. He could hear shouts and shots alike echoing against his back as he rounded corners, weaving as complicated a path as he could without tripping himself up.

Despite his determination, Strain felt a flicker of doubt. _Why am I running from this? I could stop, turn and kill them all. I could, I could_. This thought stopped him short as he passed another corner, hesitating, unsure whether to try uptown or down. He recognized this place, this crossroad—one path led toward the outskirts, home, safety.

 _I’ll never lead them there_. As he reeled to the left, someone in his peripheral vision lunged, so close to grabbing him that Strain’s nervecircuits buzzed with the swipe of air. Snarling, he swept the other mech away with such force that he heard something crack; if it was his arm or the enemy’s, he didn’t know. He rushed on. The lasers spewed after him much faster than the agents sending them; heat seared his back and he blurrily scanned the street before skidding around one last corner—one last stretch—

Swinging himself through a random doorway, Strain pressed himself into the darkest corner of the nearest wall and froze, all of his vents locking. Thin tendrils of steam trailed from them as the heat of the chase caught up. His vision swam, so he shuttered his optics, silencing a few bleary pain alerts, before blinking and shifting just enough to see through the front window. From what he could see, the street outside was empty…Confusion and frustration prodded at him.

_Blasted idiot. First rule of engagement: keep your optics open!_

Cautiously, tensely he crept out of the shadows, glancing around the room he had entered. It looked somewhat like the Lonely Stars Tavern—wide and dim, most of the light cast by the glow of energon cubes on shelves behind the counter, but there weren’t any games or gambling rings; in fact, only a few tables had occupants. A few of them glanced up in surprise, having missed his hasty entrance, and one of the mechs, who was sitting alone, half-rose.

“Sir, your arm…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely. Strain followed his hand to long, thin trails of energon sliding down his upper arm to his elbow.

“Oh. Thank you,” he managed, striding toward the counter. The other mech followed, bustling around the counter and retrieving a shammy, which he lightly wet with oil before handing it over. Accepting it warily, Strain hastily cleaned up his arm and inquired, “Won’t the owner object to you…?”

“Hm? Oh, no, it’s fine. All of us are allowed behind the counter.” Shrugging ruefully, the stranger leaned over and pointed to one of the back tables, where Strain could make out a dark shape slumped on the table. The hybrid mech glanced back at him, optics narrowed, and he shrugged a second time, visor flashing. “I don’t think he’s really interested in running this place as much as he is in being a customer, so anyone who comes in just takes what they want. Some of the real customers, like me, feel sorry for him, so we clean up a bit and leave some credits on the counter for him.” That said, he turned and took up a different cloth, wiping out an energon flute and leaving Strain to his thoughts.

 _Smokescreen_ , he recalled abruptly, twisting in the direction of the doorway. _He told me to trust him, he said he was right behind…Oh, but that’s typical of him to get any innocents out of the way if he thinks he’s in trouble he can’t shake…But I’m not an innocent. Why would he do that to me?_

 _Do the **Kumaikon** know about me, about what I did?_ Strain found it hard to swallow as that thought arose. If they knew about all of the destruction he had caused, they likely knew about his past affiliations as well.

_If they knew I was a policemech, they would believe Smokescreen was reporting to me. They would want to make sure neither of us could pass along any more data about their plans. Perhaps they thought the mishandled hit last night wasn’t just mishandled, but prevented. That doesn’t explain why they would think I was still with the police! Since then, I haven’t exactly been upholding the—_

“Oh,” he gasped softly, pressing his face into one hand for a klik. “Oh, they knew about what came afterward; they knew _everything_.”

“I’m sorry?” the mech in front of him prompted, puzzled, as he filled the cleaned energon flute with medium grade and slid it across the counter. “Here, do you want—?” Strain pushed it back at him immediately.

“No.” He was too focused on his line of thought. Smokescreen had mentioned that the **Kumaikon** had connections in Culumex; if they had realized he was the one who had brought Incinerator’s branch of it down…

_Then from their point of view, there would be one of two reasons for Smokescreen to be with me: he was either reporting to me as a subversive for the police or for the Culumexian operation. Do they think I usurped Incinerator, that Smokescreen is betraying their information to me for a place in an operation I’m leading? If so, they would just…kill him._

_But Smokescreen is always several steps ahead in his games and he thinks quickly on his feet. As soon as he fought off those attackers, he probably went into hiding. No doubt he wouldn’t want me involved any more than I am, so he would have a place where the **Kumaikon** _ and _I can’t follow. I just need to figure out where that would be._

The previous flicker of doubt and frustration was returning, kindling into a flame, Strain realized, clenching his hand tightly against his wounded arm, sending a sharp lance of pain through it. How was he supposed to find Smokescreen if he could barely remember how to navigate this city? Had it been Culumex, if he still had his resources and contacts, he could have scoured all thirteen sectors in half the time. Perhaps he could have given Windcharger a call, explained the situation, and the younger mech might even help to repay his debt to Prowl.

There wasn’t any room for wishful thinking. Strain startled, returning to the present as his comm. link trilled against his audial. Who on Cybertron would be…? Hoping against hope, he acknowledged. “Yes?”

“Strain, where are you? Where the _frag_ are you?”

“Smokescreen?” No sooner had the word left Strain’s mouth did he register the almost-tangible anger in the caller’s voice. “Wait…Is this—?”

“You already know who it is,” Prowl spat, static fritzing through his words and concealing precisely none of what he might be feeling. “Until a few minutes ago, I thought all of my communication lines here were completely secure, but better safe than sorry.” The policemech chuckled bitterly, repeating, “ _Safe_ …Thanks to you and your carelessness, none of us are safe—my family least of all!”

“Smokescreen?” Strain ventured nervously, dread stirring in his systems like a hot wind. “Where…where is he?”

“Where do you _think_ , Strain?! I just received a call from Railway, a senior officer of the **Kumaikon**.” For a nanoklik, the ice in Prowl’s voice cracked. “He…made it clear as the Helix crystals what would happen to my cousin if anyone associated with me interfered in their operation any longer.”

Strain swallowed dryly as the words sank in, overcome with a sudden urge to grip the counter, but against his better judgment he couldn’t bring himself to move. It wasn’t just fear that he felt crawling down his backstrut, but the sickening, dizzying realization that he had thought only of himself. He should have stayed, he should have found a way to help, but he had betrayed and abandoned the only friend he had left. It was just as Prowl had warned Smokescreen in the Lonely Stars:

_“Watch yourself, Smokescreen; this one tends to backstab his old friends.”_

“No,” he rasped out. “No, no—Prowl, you have to find a way to rescue him, to protect him! Don’t you have others in their fold?!”

“Not on Smokescreen’s level! None of them have gained the trust that Smokescreen has… _had_. If any of them were to act in their capacity as runners, it wouldn’t be long before they were right beside him in front of a firing squad.”

“Then tell me what I can do,” Strain commanded, desperation clawing at his voice. “I started this! What can I do to salvage what I’ve done?”

“You can _run_ ,” Prowl spat, “just as you did before.” At Strain’s speechless pause, he went on harshly, “You can’t take on their ranks on your own and if they see me or any other policemechs near you, Smokescreen’s life is forfeit. You need to get yourself as far away from this as possible, so go on the run! If you disappear, the **Kumaikon** might— _might_ think they made a mistake assuming he reported to you. At least they won’t risk attacking me as flagrantly as they did you.” The Praxian’s following sigh fizzed with static, quieting his next words. “Not only that, Strain, but your blatant clash with the **Kumaikon** has already drawn…other optics.”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t think NET’s reach spanned Culumex alone, did you?”

Desperation and fear dissolved all too easily into a familiar dread. Unable to suppress the slightest tremor in his hands, Strain pressed them flat against the counter. “NET,” he echoed weakly. “They…know I’m here in Praxus?”

“No doubt their Culumexian brother branch alerted them that you would be coming. They’ve been monitoring you ever since you stepped off the pod,” Prowl assured him grimly. “You see now why you need to hide, Strain? The **Kumaikon** want you, but NET wants you more and I don’t want either of them catching even a _hint_ of the other’s scent! Primus Almighty, if they were to combine forces—!”

Before Strain could listen to the catastrophe’s projections, a jarring crash rang out directly in front of him. Looking up, he discovered the mech behind the counter hurriedly subspacing as many energon cubes as he could, knocking down several flutes in the process.

“What are you—?” Strain broke off before the question had fully formed in his processor as he truly beheld the mech for the first time, in the energon’s glow. He was painted in turquoise and gold, too clashing for a Praxian, and he had no doorwings or chevron. His visor was thick, dull silver, unrefined, but it was the acid burn raked across the left side of his face that made Strain certain.

“I’ll call you as soon as I can, Prowl.” Hanging up, Strain rose from his seat, grabbing the stranger’s arm. “You heard me; you recognize NET,” he whispered, torn between relief and urgency.

“Everyone knows about NET,” the mech hissed back, his visor lenses flashing milky white-violet, then red and then green before bleaching back to silver.

“But _you_ —you’re a subject of interest, aren’t you?” Strain persisted. With an indeterminable noise, the other mech wrenched away, striding quickly toward the backdoor. Without a thought Strain rushed after him. As they emerged into the sunlight, he barked, “Your visor! That’s not a Praxian make; it’s Nyonian! I have a feeling I know what they would do to get ahold of someone with Nyon’s radiation resistance, but it’s more than that! What was that your visor was doing back there? You’re tuned into spectrophotometry, aren’t you? That’s why—”

“That’s why I left Nyon!” the stranger hissed, whirling around and gripping Strain’s shoulders. “I tried to go to Harmonex first, my sire’s city, but they found me there too! I thought maybe in Praxus I wouldn’t be as interesting to them. I thought I might be able to stay below the radar, but even here…”

“Listen,” Strain cut him off urgently, “do you have any hiding places? Somewhere that jams NET’s surveillance equipment?”

“Ha! Why should I tell you?!” Shaking his helm, the other Outcrosser recoiled a few steps, looking Strain up and down. “You said NET wants you, but how do I know you’re not _already_ one of them—one of their _patients?_ ”

Strain floundered for a nanoklik for a convincing response before his optics trailed back to the acid scars. “Those wounds are from a NET probe, aren’t they? You resisted and were burned in the process, weren’t you?” he hazarded a guess, spreading his arms. “Use your visor to scan my spark for the same damage; it’s NET’s signature, it’s how their patients are created.” He didn’t flinch as the other mech’s visor rapidly changed colors, scanning him on every level.

“So…you aren’t one of them,” was the soft, tentative conclusion.

“No, but I might be soon enough if I can’t find a safe haven,” Strain sighed, throwing up his hands. “Anywhere I might have gone is probably already compromised. I’m sure if NET wants you as badly as they want me, you’ve mapped out the various dead areas! You need only point me in the right direction!”

“There is…” the mech hesitated for five solid kliks before soldiering on, “There might be a place I know, but we can’t take surface streets.” So saying, he turned and took off toward a steep decline in the alleyway.

Relieved, Strain hurried to catch up, adding as an afterthought, “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“Maybe that’s best.” Noticing Strain’s skeptical eyebrow raise, the younger mech ex-vented heavily. “Spectrum of Nyon and Harmonex. Fitting, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. I’m Strain of Praxus and Culumex, and I’m in your debt.”


	9. Chapter 9

Swallowing hard, Prowl rewound the recording, shuttered his optics and listened again.

_“Well, well, well…I suppose I should’ve known Smokescreen’s go-to comm. link would be yours. I salute you, Prowl—the divine commanding officer, speaking from on high! Too bad you’re not all-seeing or you might have prevented what’s going to happen now.”_

_“What have you done?” the policemech gasped, struggling and failing to keep the desperation out of his voice._

_“Railway. Call me by my name, Chop Shop.”_

_“Railway, tell me what you’ve done to Smokescreen!”_

_“No, thanks. Smokescreen and I have some…private business, if you will. And even if I don’t tell you, you’re not going to do a thing about it. We wouldn’t want any badges around to be the last thing Smokescreen sees…before I send you his optics in a neat little can.”_

_“What do you want?”_

_“What I’ve always wanted: I want you Chop Shops to leave me and my operation alone. If I see anything out of the ordinary—any policemechs, current or former, like that freak Smokescreen drags around—I’m punching a blaster so far into your cousin’s helm that it’ll come out the other side. If you don’t understand that, well, I guess what I’ve heard about you is true; you really are that ignorant. Smokescreen’s sure hoping that you’re not.”_

Clenching his teeth so tightly that something in his jaw squeaked, Prowl smacked the recorder off with unnecessary force and sighed. The call couldn’t have come at a worse, more volatile time. Early this morning, his superiors had been threatening him in no uncertain terms with a reprimand for not making any progress on the cases he had been given, so he had resolved to temporarily shelve his off-the-record investigation in favor of focusing on other tasks. He had planned to tell Smokescreen to lay low at tomorrow’s meet.

Right now, he couldn’t bear to think of it. Ever since receiving the call, he had been calling anyone with weight and rank, refreshing his guilt as he confessed about his side investigation and explained the facts over and over. His superiors were most certainly reprimanding him now; all of them were furious, but there was just a small comfort in that a few of them knew what it would mean to him if they supported him regardless.

 _It’s family, after all_.

 _I should_ never _have involved my family_.

 _But, knowing Smokescreen, he would have found out eventually and_ insisted _he be involved_. That and the fact that Smokescreen had no qualms about the operation weren’t helpful in the least. Despite himself, Prowl couldn’t erase the mental images springing to mind like oil leaks. A sense of helplessness lodged in his chest and he started to reach for his comm. link again by instinct, but he had already called the other officers who knew of his operation; they were just as cut off from their informants as Prowl was from his cousin; the other subversives weren’t going to compromise themselves. Frankly Prowl couldn’t blame them.

The only other mech who had information was the one Prowl didn’t dare call after discovering his personal comm. could be accessed by **Kumaikon**. He was already in the process of setting up a new line, but judging by how abruptly their last call had ended, Strain wasn’t available. It was only when Prowl felt sudden spikes of pain through his hands that he realized how tightly he had doubled them.

A familiar, questioning nudge startled him slightly. _~:That’s a **lot** of steam you’re projecting, Prowl. Bad orn?:~_

Prowl felt his various stress alerts soften automatically toward the probe. When it counted, he could always talk to Bluestreak. Leaning back in his chair, he let his weariness trickle through little by little. _~:You don’t know the half of it.:~_

_~:Would it help if I dropped by? I was going to anyway; I was hoping to ask you if you know where Smokes is.:~_

The dents in Prowl’s palms deepened. Trying to soothe his racing thoughts and spark, he focused on carefully suppressing the anxiety that threatened.  _~:Why do you think I would know?:~_

_~:Well, if he’s not with me, he’s usually finding ways to antagonize you, and he’s not with me. He and I were supposed to meet for a cube a joor and a half ago. He’s not usually the type to stiff me!:~_

_~:No, I haven’t seen him.:~_ How Prowl wished he could say he had. _~:I could use your company right about now.:~_

Bluestreak may not have intended the ripple of surprise that preceded his happiness, but Prowl still sensed it. _~:Alright! I’m on my way! I’ll bring you Smokescreen’s cube since he’s not here to drink it.:~_

 _~:Sounds good.:~_ The very thought of drinking energon with Bluestreak sitting across from him made Prowl nauseous, but it was all he could think to say. All too soon, he would need to find much more to say. How was he supposed to explain this away? If— _When_ Smokescreen returned, Prowl was going to lecture him to no end for making plans one-on-one with Bluestreak and flirting with disaster.

Despite himself, Prowl forced a laugh at the irony. He had done Smokescreen one better. This wasn’t flirting; this was courting and bonding with disaster. It came with a sense of foreboding that only drew closer as he scrambled through his data, looking for some kind of excuse he could give. Distracting him, nagging at him, and finally stopping him short was the realization that if he excused this too long and they…lost Smokescreen, Bluestreak would learn that Prowl had been partially involved in what had cost them their kin.

Facing the truth now had to be much easier than that…but it didn’t make it _easy_ by a long shot, Prowl decided as the door slid open and Bluestreak smiled, dismissing the secretary who had felt the need to direct him.

“She thought I needed help finding my way around,” he chuckled as greeting as he strode in, unpacking two energon cubes and some rust sticks, the latter of which Prowl waved away, gesturing wordlessly to the jar Strain had passed on—as of yet, it was untouched. Bluestreak gave it a puzzled look, swiping one of the sticks and crunching it cheerfully. “Wow, these are really good! Overclutch’s brand, right? We really should visit him sometime.” His grin widened as he took a sip of his energon, glancing around at the awards on the walls before adding, “There, you can say I made the suggestion so you can keep pretending you’re under duress.”

 _But I_ am _under duress! I need to just spit it out. If I don’t, I never will, but it’s been so long…such a guarded secret…Smokescreen and I have worked so hard to get here and this is where it ends—Smokescreen missing in action, myself under the duress of the **Kumaikon** , and Bluestreak…oh, Bluestreak, without a clue_. Prowl glanced guiltily between his twin and the energon cube he had slid across the desk. Noticing the look, Bluestreak paused, breaking off the rust stick.

“Oh…are you not in the mood to talk?” he questioned cautiously. Prowl swallowed, his jaw squeaking again, and Bluestreak’s eyebrows rose. “Are you regretting asking me to come at all? Slag, how bad has this orn been? Prowl?” Frowning, the younger twin shuffled a few steps closer, leaning down to recapture his optics. “Prowl, you’ve got that look on your face that I don’t like—the one you had when we received the news about Uncle Downshift and Aunt Cinder. What’s wrong?”

Knitting his fingers together and leaning his chevron against them, Prowl took another few kliks to steel himself before sitting up straighter in his chair. “You should sit, Bluestreak. It’s about Smokescreen.” As Bluestreak opened his mouth to protest, Prowl assured him, “I don’t intend to rant. It’s nothing he’s done and I’m not angry with him. In fact, I…I’m worried about him.”

The policemech grimaced. Worry was hard enough for him to admit; if he hadn’t shielded Bluestreak’s half of their bond in time, his brother would have surely felt the clinging, rising fear Prowl had felt ever since he’d received the call.

“Worried?” Bluestreak echoed, optics narrowing in confusion and concern. “That’s not like you…”

“You would be surprised,” Prowl huffed, smiling weakly. “When we were younger, I worried after you and Smokescreen constantly, if you remember.” At Bluestreak’s thoughtful nod, Prowl’s half-smile faded as if it had never existed. “But this is far more serious than the mischief we found as mechlings. Bluestreak…you understand that in my line of work, there’s a lot that I can’t discuss with you, for your own safety—ongoing cases and such.”

“Sure, I understand,” Bluestreak concurred, one doorwing flicking uncertainly. “What does that have to do with—?”

“And while that’s been at the forefront of my thoughts, there’s nothing I can do now but share and hope that you’ll _continue_ to understand,” Prowl rushed on. If he faltered, he wouldn’t be able to go on. “Smokescreen and I…have been conducting business…and to keep that business under wraps, we thought it would be best to create…a façade. Most of Praxus knows my relation to Smokescreen, so we constructed an argument that would be convincing: we had fallen out over his gambling habits and were steadily worsening.”

“Wait,” Bluestreak sputtered, waving his hands out as though to erase Prowl’s words. “You—are you saying that you and Smokescreen aren’t fighting with each other? You’re not planning to arrest him like you implied so many times and he’s not planning to disown you?”

“No. Smokescreen is a confidential informant…and I am his handler.” Bluestreak’s hands and doorwings fell to his sides and Prowl sighed deeply, wishing he could feel better without that weight on his chest. “We had to convince everyone otherwise, Bluestreak, even you. I’m sorry for that.”

“You both…Smokescreen played me? You _lied_ to me?” Bluestreak pressed, digesting the realization, hurt flaring from his side of their bond. Prowl sent a stronger surge of apology through to counter it, but his brother dodged it. “But if you’ve been lying for so long, why are you telling me the truth now? Why are you worried? Did someone else find out you were lying?”

“Yes.”

“Who? S-Someone dangerous?”

“Yes,” Prowl repeated, softer this time. “There is…an association called the **Kumaikon**. Smokescreen infiltrated them on my behalf and on the behalf of their victims.”

“Victims?!”

“I trust you’ve seen various ‘accidents’ on the news with increasing frequency,” Prowl murmured. “For example, the explosion that killed Potshot…that was their handiwork.”

“But that was just a ruptured energon line in the street!” Bluestreak protested, shaking his helm violently.

“The **Kumaikon** ruptured it and then handed Potshot a bomb to boot—it was, quite literally, overkill.” Fear and revulsion rolled in from Bluestreak and Prowl half-rose, holding out a hand. “I’m sorry, that—that was poorly phrased.”

“So these **Kumaikon** found out that Smokescreen was working with you?” Bluestreak asked tremulously. Prowl dipped his helm shamefacedly and Bluestreak trembled. “Is he—what have they—?”

“All I know right now is that they have him detained,” Prowl admitted.

“How could they—? Prowl, how could you have been so careless?!”

Prowl felt as though he’d been slapped. “Bluestreak, casting blame isn’t going to help the situation—”

“No, but this is Smokescreen who’s in danger, our _only_ family! Why didn’t you put someone else in there?” his brother protested, pressing his hands briefly against his face before pacing the room. “How long has he been captured? Why haven’t you tried to negotiate or rescue him already?”

“If I try, they’ll _kill_ him!”

“But you’re supposed to have resources to find him! Why aren’t you using them? Have—have your lies gone to your processor?!”

“ _No_.” Rising from his seat, Prowl came around the desk, speaking firmly and clearly. “Listen to me. Contrary to what you’ve been led to believe, I care about Smokescreen just as much as you do!  I’ve already called everyone who could lend support. I’ve resorted to using my favors, my friendships, my rank—Pits, even my _caste!_ You aren’t the only one who’s afraid for him and I’m doing everything I can! Don’t you dare imply otherwise!”

“You’re just trying to make up for your mistake!”

“Sure as slag, I am, because if Smokescreen dies, it’ll be my fault!” Indignation seeping away through the cracks, Prowl ex-vented shakily, repeating lowly, “My fault…But as I said, blame won’t save him. I’m waiting for word from my superiors and my other contacts. You can either wait with me or leave; I don’t care.”

So saying, he slunk back to his chair, straightening the comm. recorder and rewinding it again. Bluestreak remained where he was, his optics draining of color as Railway’s call played. After three more replays, he grimaced, took ahold of the chair across the desk and slid it next to Prowl’s before sitting. Prowl started to shift so their EM fields wouldn’t touch, but no sooner had he done that did Bluestreak reach over the armrests and grip his nearest hand. Ducking his helm again, Prowl brushed a doorwing against his brother’s in acknowledgement.

“We’ll…get him back, right?” Bluestreak murmured in a small voice. He sounded like an entirely different mech.

Shuttering his optics, Prowl squeezed his hand tightly. After so long of lying, he couldn’t find it in himself to manage another one. “I don’t know.”

—

_Darkness. Light, sounds. Shapes, colors, and pain. Constant pain._

As he groggily struggled to stand upright and relieve the pressure on his shoulders and back, Smokescreen wondered just how many circuit boosters Railway had given him. He had distinctly tasted Regolith as it was forced through his vents—and hoped no one would ever ask _how_ he already knew what it tasted like—and it had caused havoc with his systems, tripping strange circuits and charging all of his senses. On some conscious level, he knew the warped people and places he saw weren’t really there, but he desperately clung to the visions, trying to ignore the torture that followed. Thanks to the tunnel vision the Regolith gave him, he remembered it all vividly.

Thus far, Smokescreen had tried not to cry out, just on principle, but he was too run down to be very stubborn and before long the **Kumaikon** interrogators were wringing frequent cries of pain out of him.  They beat him for no reason other than sport and seemed to love finding new and inventive ways to hurt him, telling him to get used to it, that he could expect this sort of thing regularly as long as he refused to talk.

Curling into himself as much as his bonds allowed, the spy shuddered as the head interrogator grabbed his shoulder, his talons digging sharply into the nodes that led through his dislocated doorwing. Smokescreen gasped, voice cracking, half-consciously willing his self-repair systems to work faster. Who knew if they were still working at all? Growling wordlessly, he swayed awkwardly against his cuffs and the mech holding him, trying to recoil. The mech laughed incredulously at the effort, slamming Smokescreen’s helm against the nearest wall of the bunker’s interrogation room, and the captive faded from pain to darkness.

When he clawed his way back to pain, Smokescreen found that he had been left alone, if only for a little while. He had to make the most of that. Reluctantly he relaxed his shoulders, letting them take just a little more of his weight and ignoring the way his doorwing twitched in agonized abandon. Prying his jaw open, he let energon and oral fluid drain from his throat into a puddle on the floor as he sorted what he had learned. Smokescreen was an observant mech under any circumstance and the drugs he had been given had only heightened his senses further; they not only made the pain worse but had given him an advantage. He had seen things, heard things…even here, he was doing what he could. His mission, the thought of _winning_ this game and saving lives, kept him going.

So far, he had been introduced to a team of six interrogators. While most of the officers were skilled with their blasters, these six had a range of skills and dangers to their names. Right now, Smokescreen only knew one of those names: Margin, Railway’s sweetspark. He had never expected she would know so many uses for a vibroblade. The others, he suspected, were former medics and engineers, careers that would give them expertise on internal systems. He was most concerned with the fact that he didn’t know them.

 _I’m supposed to know every officer here. How did I miss them? Who are they? Were they called off-site, paid to do this? Or…is there another site that I don’t know about? Just how many sites are there? How much bigger is this operation?_ He couldn’t bear to think of how small his efforts might have been in comparison. He worked his stasis cuffs, twisting grotesquely against them to see how much damage had been done to his right forearm; it was gouged, warped, and the nervecircuits were completely numb.

“F-Frag…” he wheezed, vocalizer crackling and catching on more energon. If the housing for his interface cable hadn’t been crushed, he may have been able to hack his cuffs, but there was no hope for that now. Despair threatened, but he habitually pushed it away, shuttering his optics and focusing his mind on more important things.

 _Escape_.

The door slid open, bringing blinding light. Smokescreen squinted, glancing past Margin toward the rooms beyond. To his alarm, he thought he saw charges and detonators scattered over the nearest tabletop, but the door closed again before he could see any more. With that, he turned his optics to his interrogator.

_Here we go again._

_Darkness. Pain._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That torture scene is easily the darkest one in this story so far, but it'll probably be the last we hear from Smokescreen in a while... :/


	10. Chapter 10

Spectrum wasn’t entirely sure what to think of the mech he was leading to his hideout. His thoughts were racing, jumbling together, his EM field prickling whenever he felt his new companion draw near.

 _Strain…Strain of Praxus and Culumex_. It was a strange combination, but to each their own, he mused. Who was he to judge? Nyon was far, far away from Harmonex, but somehow his creators had found each other—and, eventually, he was sure to find them, no matter how far. As soon as that thought surfaced, he shoved it to the deepest subfolder at the back of his mind. He didn’t have time to fantasize; they needed to get out of the open.

Taking a sharp turn into an alleyway, Spectrum crouched, saying nothing when he felt Strain stop up short so as not to run into him.

“This is both a surface street and a dead end,” Strain announced dryly.

“Only to the untrained optic,” Spectrum retorted, his visor clicking to a thermal reading. Whoever had last used this entrance had left traces on the latch, just as he had suspected. Tapping it lightly, he rose with the entrance as it transformed to become something of an overhanging. Spectrum glanced back at Strain triumphantly, privately hoping to see a little surprise from him, but the other mech seemed unfazed by the reveal.

 _What if he already knows?_ Spectrum wondered, cautiously gesturing for Strain to enter first. _What if he_ is _with NET and I’ve revealed my secret to him? He doesn’t need to have the spark scarring for him to be associated with them; there are plenty of NET bots who are there willingly_ …

In a way, that didn’t matter anymore; it was too late. Strain was already forging ahead and Spectrum needed to follow, lest someone more unsavory happened to notice. Pursing his lips, he ducked inside and pulled the hatch closed behind them. The underground streets weren’t well-lit, but there were a few orb lamps lining the tunnels that allowed Spectrum to see a few yards ahead. However, Strain was making him increasingly uneasy; his dark colors melded into the shadows and he had no biolights to speak of, so it was hard to keep track of him.

Lengthening his strides, Spectrum switched to night vision and ex-vented lightly in relief. “Did you know there were tunnels down here?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound too suspicious.

“Yes, I was aware, but I’ve never used them,” Strain replied, his words none too reassuring. He seemed to sense the discomfort in Spectrum’s following silence and added belatedly, “I was raised here in Praxus; I got to know the city well.”

“Oh.” Spectrum nodded pensively, filing that information away. He could now say he knew one basic thing about this mech. “Well, take a right up there.” He gestured vaguely, unsure if Strain could see it in the darkness, and then planted his hand against the wall to his right. It was damp in some places, various oils dripping down from city storm drains. He could feel the liquid splashing faintly under his feet and trailing after him in currents; the ground was gradually sloping upward. They were close.

After taking the right and a left a few yards later, Spectrum moved ahead of Strain, laying his hand against a thick, rusty door tucked into a small niche. If he opened this door, there really would be no going back. For several diuns now, he had survived on his own and wanted to keep it that way. If Strain was a double agent, Spectrum’s entire operation—his survival—would be compromised.

On the other hand, if the mech was a fellow NET refugee, he couldn’t in good conscience turn his back on him. Swallowing, Spectrum typed up his code and swung the door open, revealing a wide, rectangular room lit by a single massive light generator fixed to the far right wall. The back wall was lined with three computers and a table with piles of salvaged parts, and the left wall had a recharge slab and a small cold storage unit.

“My humble home,” Spectrum claimed quietly, sweeping a hand out at the expanse. “Make yourself comfortable.” With that he crossed to the cold unit, storing the energon cubes he had taken from the tavern. Once that was done, he glanced warily back at his guest, who was studying the computers intently. If there were any time for Strain to make a move, it would be now, but he simply pulled the squeaky chair away from the computer desks and closer to the door before he sat.

“So I couldn’t help but hear some of your comm. call,” Spectrum commented, breaking the stiff silence. “You’re looking for someone—Smokescreen, I think you said?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid I have no idea where to start looking,” Strain sighed, something both guilty and bitter crossing his features. “My only contact seems to believe that I’ve done enough damage, that I’m incapable of finding him. He encouraged me to go underground, so now I have no one on my side, no one to turn to for advice when it’s most dire.” He paused, fidgeting slightly in the chair before demanding abruptly, “Would you happen to have a data pad?”

Any thought of sympathizing, of telling Strain that he knew that kind of helplessness, fled Spectrum’s mind. “Oh. Yes, of course.” Rifling through the pile of salvaged parts, he added, “It’s not capable of transmissions. I’ve been working on it, but so far nothing seems to have worked.”

“Have you made certain that the router couplings aren’t fused to the regimen board?”

Spectrum blinked, startled. From the outside, this mech didn’t seem technologically inclined. “I suppose I’ll add that to my list of things to try,” he conceded slowly.

“Either way, I don’t intend to send a transmission.” Strain said no more, already engrossed in his typing. Spectrum wasn’t sure why or if he was ever supposed to feel this uncomfortable in his own home, but eventually he wandered back to the miscellaneous parts, aimlessly shuffling through and untangling them. He was more preoccupied wondering what Strain _did_ intend with that data pad.

 _He’s smarter than he looks, so he probably knows more than he seems to. He said he was raised here? Were his creators together or did one of them return to their home city? One would think I’d be able to tell—oh, and isn’t there a beautiful irony in that?—but the point is that I need to know more about him_. Ex-venting evenly, he pivoted.

“Strain, I don’t tend to be so forward, but I think that if we’re going to help each other, you need to share the specifics of your situation,” he urged. “Your augmentation, for example? NET usually hunts for hybrid mechs if there’s something _off_ about them.”

Strain’s fingers stilled over the keypad as he glanced up, optics narrowing slightly. Rising from the chair, he set the data pad on the seat and swept his left arm in the direction of the exit. Spectrum couldn’t help recoiling a few steps when the shorter mech’s long arm shot out, crossing several yards to open the door.

“I’m going to be sure we didn’t leave any tracks,” he announced flatly. Spectrum stared openmouthed after him as he made his dramatic exit and then turned his veiled optics to the data pad. As soon as the door slid shut, he moved forward, snatching up the pad. Perhaps it wasn’t polite to read, but caution overruled courtesy. No sooner had he set his optics on the header did his surprise return. It wasn’t the kind of journal he had expected at all.

**_Carrier:_ **

**_It wasn’t so long ago that I wrote to you, but already much has changed. It hasn’t been long since I arrived in Praxus again but I’ve set events in motion that can’t be undone and now I can’t be sure what kind of damage will be my consequence. More and more, it seems everything that I do—everything that I’ve done for many vorns now—ends in despair and loss, no matter if it’s my own or my friends’. _ **

**_Smokescreen has been lost. I’ll do everything in my power to find him, but right now it seems like my power is very small in the big picture. I suppose you know of NET, of the dangers it caused. I’ll never know if you ever encountered them, but in an attempt to save myself from a fate worse than death, I might have condemned Smokescreen to a fate just as terrible. Not even a potential ally, another Outcrosser, is any comfort if I lose my only friend._ **

**_Call it surprising, but I find myself wishing I could go to Sire for help. I can’t. It would only put him in a position of leverage against me if he was discovered. You’re not in any danger of that, but I might have risked it just to hear your advice and_ **

Swallowing guiltily, Spectrum slid the pad back on the chair for Strain to finish when he returned. He probably should have been dismayed at how quickly his feelings of suspicion toward Strain had melted, but now he felt rather confused instead. There was definitely more to the mech than he had supposed; his bearing showed none of the sadness and helplessness that the words revealed.

A sudden thought occurred to him then: had Strain left the data pad there, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to resist it? Perhaps that was his way of showing that he could be trusted. Either way, Spectrum wasn’t about to let Strain know that he had read it. Hastily spinning back toward the table, he returned to his work. Another question that could be raised was why Strain would write a letter to his carrier if he didn’t intend to transmit it.

Strain returned after almost a breem and Spectrum was vaguely surprised that he had returned at all. From the sound of it, the other mech might have been happier if he’d left and searched for his friend Smokescreen on his own. He heard the seat squeak as Strain retook it and the typing resumed for a while. Now that he had read the beginning, Spectrum couldn’t help being curious about how it continued. Only once that sound petered out did the chair squeak again as it was pushed back toward the computers.

“Thank you for letting me use this,” Strain offered simply. Spectrum peeked over at him and Strain tilted his helm, inconspicuously subspacing the pad. “So do tell me, Spectrum, how did you come to draw NET’s optics?” Strain questioned, folding his long arms expectantly. Something in his tone gave Spectrum pause. Strain trusted him as little as he trusted Strain; this was most likely his way of asking if he was legitimate. 

Clearing his throat, Spectrum began reluctantly, “It’s probably not a unique story, at least not for our kind. My carrier, Flourish, was from Nyon and my sire, Metronome, was from Harmonex. When I was sparked, we lived in Nyon with my carrier’s family. My sire had a well-paying job as a worker in the Acroplex and my carrier was an energon refiner. We were content there; it was a great life.”

“As most previous lives are when compared to life as NET’s subject,” Strain concurred—wryly, as though that didn’t apply to him.

“True,” Spectrum allowed, deciding not to pry into that right now. “It didn’t take long for my abilities to be noticed; I was rising to the top of most of my classes, thanks to these.” He tapped one finger against the edge of his lenses. “It was all around the school. I was flattered that everyone wanted to be around me, but I can’t say I enjoyed the attention; I was a bit shy back then, so I did my best to take advantage of moments alone…Maybe if I hadn’t, I might have avoided what happened next.”

Realization and dread crossed Strain’s features; he already knew what was coming. Spectrum nodded with a steadying sigh. “I was in my second frame, almost ready to be transferred to my third. When I went off for some time to study alone, a teacher approached me. I had always been somewhat…wary of her. Call it a young Outcrosser’s intuition, but I knew something was _off_ about her—the way she acted, the way she moved, the spark she had in her optics—I just didn’t know what that spark was until it was too late. She abducted me from the school and smuggled me off to the NET center.

“Before they could give me the coding, my spark started seizing up. They opted out of the procedure until I was transferred to my third frame, for fear of damaging my spark prematurely.” Laughing bitterly, Spectrum threw up his hands. “Isn’t _that_ remarkable? NET, afraid of damaging my spark accidentally and ruining their chances of damaging it on purpose…I didn’t know much about NET back then, but I knew whatever was coming would probably affect me for the worse. I figured my third frame would be larger and stronger, better suited for an escape. Once I was transferred and far enough into my recovery for the coding, just when they had readied the probe and were about to open me up, I bolted.”

“That’s how you received those scars,” Strain supplied unnecessarily, vaguely gesturing.

“That’s right. One of them swung the probe’s axle at me just as I ducked.” Unseen beneath his visor, Spectrum clenched his optics tightly shut, trying to suppress the searing memory of the surgical instrument raking across his face. “I don’t know how, but I lost them eventually. I knew I needed to go to a hospital, not just to treat my burns but to find some energon—you know how frame transfers cause energy deficiency—so once I found one, I subspaced as many supplies as I could find without being too conspicuous.”

“You stole them? I didn’t suspect you were that kind of mech,” Strain commented pointblank.

“The supplies are there for a reason, Strain: to _treat_ wounded bots. Can you argue with that?” Filling Strain’s silence, Spectrum went on, “Afterward, I found a computer that wasn’t in use and looked up my creators. I thought that if I could just find my way back to them…My carrier grew up in labyrinths; she would know how to disappear and cover our tracks, and my sire was an Acroplex guard, a fighting mech. I would have been safe with them, but then I discovered that while I was missing, my carrier had given spark to my younger sibling: Spintone, a sister.”

Spectrum paused, shuttering his optics again for a klik or two. “If I had gone back to them and there was even the slightest chance…If NET had found us, they would have taken my sister too and that was a chance I could never take. So, as I told you before, I tried to go to Harmonex and maintain a low profile there, but barely a vorn later, NET found me again. I traveled along the Rust Sea’s line and then made a detour through Polyhex to Iacon. Eventually I ended up here and…well, I _was_ succeeding at lying low, until you arrived and exposed me on sight.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been undercover a lot longer than you have,” Strain admitted guiltlessly. “But to be fair, I wasn’t certain until you started panicking and your visor changed color.” After a few kliks of silence, he shifted slightly forward, his voice softer. “So you haven’t seen your family since you were a second-frame?”

“That’s right.” Spectrum left it at that, biting back any questions in return about Strain’s carrier: where she was, why his letter had implied that he hadn’t seen her in a long time—and likely would never see her again.  

If it was anything like his own reason, perhaps he didn’t want to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case any of you were wondering, no, Strain had no idea Spectrum would read his letter, nor did he ever find out. Needless to say he'll be a little surprised that Specs starts trusting him more easily with no explanation, but it's a good basis for their relationship. ;)


	11. Chapter 11

“Three quintuns’ time, Spectrum…It’s been three quintuns since you agreed to work with me and together, we’ve accomplished exactly _nothing_ ,” Strain snapped, scraping his chair away from the three inane, useless computer monitors. His newly-acquired partner, who sat on the nearby recharge slab, looked up from the broken transmitter he was examining with an expression Strain found it surprisingly hard to read.

“Well, we got the computers working again, at least,” Spectrum reminded him.

“Yes, we have, and _they’ve_ accomplished nothing either,” Strain spat, rising from his seat and stalking restlessly around the room. “Perhaps it’s safe enough now that I can go above ground, at least long enough to find some more information on the organization holding him hostage.” Spectrum pressed his lips tightly together, seeming unconvinced, and Strain muttered a curse in Culumexian.

It had become increasingly aggravating to think of how little he really knew about the **Kumaikon** and what they intended to do. Smokescreen’s explanation of how they operated continued to roll over and over in Strain’s mind, but it lacked the data he needed now: their current movements, their standard procedures, their arsenal. Helplessness constantly gnawed at him, even more so when he began wondering if Smokescreen was thinking of his safety in return. He hoped not; he didn’t deserve the concern, not when Smokescreen was probably fighting for his life.

“If I’m not mistaken, you said three quintuns ago that you have more experience on going underground than I do,” Spectrum commented. “Frankly, you seem like the type who would be more patient than this while outrunning danger—I saw you as the type of mech who’d be at least as patient as NET.”

“Not here, not like this. When I was underground before, I had resources!” Strain argued, coming to a stop in the middle of the room and shaking his helm. “I’ve never been a supporter of stalemates, Spectrum, and I’ve never been one to run from a fight. It’s against my nature and…it’s what caused my friend’s capture in the first place. If I hadn’t listened to him, if I had stayed and fought—”

“You’d probably be right next to him in their base,” Spectrum pointed out.

“Thank you for your confidence,” Strain huffed, glowering at him. The younger mech hunched his shoulders apologetically and Strain glanced away from him at the door. “If it will get me any closer to finding him, I’m willing to risk it. But since it’s not just my wellbeing or my refuge at stake, I need your… _consent_.” His thoughts drifted again for a nanoklik, Incinerator’s smile burning keenly in his mind.

_“You’re asking permission to join my pace?” he echoed, wings flicking in amusement and affection. “My dear Strain, I thought it was obvious, but whether you realized it or not, I’ve always intended to make you one of my own.”_

_“I…wasn’t aware,” Strain admitted, spark picking up when Incinerator laid his hands on his shoulders, squeezing carefully. Would he sense Strain’s ulterior motive, buried far beneath the surface? Would he sense his guilt for what was sure to come?_

_“Do you want to know my reasoning?” Incinerator offered. “It’s because you’re something to be admired. You are a powerful, honorable mech. You don’t need to ask for my consent; you’re no slave to anyone’s will, Strain, and you never will be. You and I are much alike that way; together we’ll be indomitable.”_

“What are you going to do if you find a lead?” Spectrum asked, redrawing Strain’s attention. Strain blinked at him blankly and Spectrum went on, “If I agree with you, you go above ground, and you do find something that brings us one step closer to Smokescreen’s whereabouts, what are we going to do then?”

“We’ll follow the trail as far as it leads, obviously.”

“And then?” Spectrum insisted. “There’s only two of us, Strain, and we’re up against not one but two supremely dangerous organizations. What if we come within arm’s length of rescuing Smokescreen and NET blindsides us?”

“Proper preparation prevents poor performance,” Strain deadpanned. “You don’t believe I would move on the **Kumaikon** without taking proper precautions, do you?” When Spectrum hesitated, Strain stifled a sigh. “I intend to find a computer terminal that isn’t in use and find any records I can that hold pertinent data about the **Kumaikon** or NET. I don’t know how difficult it’s going to be, but if I don’t return within a few joors, you can assume I’ve been captured by one or the other.”

“And that my refuge has been compromised?” Spectrum supplied warily.

“No. I’d sooner die than break to them; I won’t compromise you.” Strain took a few suggestive steps toward the door without breaking optic contact and after several more kliks, Spectrum vented deeply and nodded.

“Do you think you can do that in two joors?”

“Hopefully. If not, you shouldn’t feel any obligation to mount a rescue.”

“Wait, what?” Setting aside the broken transmitter, Spectrum rose, cautiously approaching. “Strain…I promised to work with you, not just to stay hidden but to find your friend, even though I’ve never met him. Do you think I’d just…give up on the both of you?”

“You seem surprised,” Strain muttered.

“I am,” Spectrum confirmed with a sharp nod, squinting at him. “A promise is a promise and since I’ve made one, I intended to keep it. I’ve gone to the trouble of offering you my help and my home and I understand what it’s like to search and search for a loved one, so it’s not an obligation to you. I’d like to think we’re willing partners! And…now _you_ seem surprised.”

Strain blinked again, unsure of what to say to that. “I’ll try to be back soon,” he managed at last, hoping his voice remained even. Spectrum nodded again, reluctantly opening the door for him, and he made his way out.

It had been three quintuns since he’d seen the sky and Strain had secretly hoped it would be brighter out, so he could feel the sun on his face, but the dusky chill had already fallen. Strain passed briefly by the tavern where he had met Spectrum, taking more energon cubes for their stockpile, and then began hurrying through the closest streets. He didn’t want to be caught alone in the dark again and most of the shops were already closed or in the process.

It was still startling to him how early the businesses closed in Praxus. In Culumex, many of them stayed open for the late-night workers and almost all of them had at least one computer terminal for public use. So far, none of the ones Strain had considered revealed any such thing, until he paused near Clutch’s Rush. The sweet shop was already dark inside, but there was a computer on the front counter.

It may not have access to the kind of information Strain was looking for, but through that entry point he could probably tap into another computer that would. Perhaps, by a long shot, his police codes would still be intact. Thus Strain glanced around, making sure that he wasn’t being watched, before landing a swift fist to the door’s mechanisms and pushing it open.

Overly loud in the silence, he crossed the room, checking his chronometer and switching the systems online; he didn’t dare turn on the lights. As the system booted and he began bypassing the various security points, he impulsively fidgeted and snatched a nearby box of energon cakes, replacing it with a credit stick. Almost immediately after he started eating one of the treats, he nearly choked on it, optics widening as he stared at the list of classified files. He recognized several from the police database and even some from the Praxian Martials—contacts, personnel files, mission records.

Whatever he had been expecting to find here, this wasn’t it.

Strain’s optics widened further when the light clicked on over his helm. Jerking in the direction of the switch, he found Overclutch staring at him, wide doorwings tilted curiously. For a nanoklik Strain wondered what he must look like with one hand in a box of energon cakes and the other clutching the edge of the computer screen before he scrambled hastily to his feet, taking on a defensive position.

“Evening. I remember you from a few quintuns back…Is there something I can help you with?” Overclutch questioned, seeming unfazed by the movement or even by Strain’s presence.

“Are you one of them?” Strain demanded in a hiss, shoulders unlocking with sharp snaps which made Overclutch shift slightly from side to side. “There are files on your computer, files that they might need. Have you been indicted or have you been one of them this entire time? What have you done with Smokescreen?”

“Well, nothing for a while. I gave you directions on where to find him, but the last time I saw him was when his cousin Bluestreak brought him here to enjoy some wheel-nuts,” Overclutch replied thoughtfully. “That was more than a diun ago, I think. As for those files…”

Holding up his hands to prove he was unarmed, the larger mech leaned over, scanning the screen Strain had pulled up and chuckling lightly. “Oh, those. No one thinks to look for those here; I’m a _retired_ Martial, after all, and this isn’t a station. That’s what keeps them safe. Those Martial files there are mine and the rest are from joint operations between us and the policemechs. If I’m honest, that’s where I get most of my war stories. But I don’t know who _else_ you think I’m working with, lad.”

Strain peered at him closely for a minute or two before easing back. He could see only honesty in the other mech, including his wings. “I paid for the energon cakes,” he offered suspiciously, gesturing at the shelf. Overclutch smiled brightly, nodding and making his way over. Strain skirted past him, back to the computer, but Overclutch spoke up again before he could return to his work.

“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for? I can save you a bit of trouble,” he suggested, subspacing the credit stick.

“No, thank you.”

“Then you can at least tell me what it has to do with Smokescreen; I’m fond of him and his family. They’ve been customers since the twins were transferred to their second frames!” Overclutch laughed again. “You should have seen the first time they came. Bluestreak tried to sneak two full jars of rust sticks off the shelves into his subspace, but he wasn’t at all practiced in using it yet, so they just dropped right through his subspace and shattered. The poor little one was so startled that _Prowl_ was the one who started crying! I’ve heard of twins sharing reactions, but that—”

“I don’t have time for this!” Strain cut in tensely, tearing open another energon cake and then, after a thought, tossing it back into the box. Overclutch’s smile fell as he re-approached, leaning his elbows onto the counter.

“Is Smokescreen in trouble?” he probed, more seriously.

Strain fidgeted again, looking the other mech up and down. “Why…why would you care?” he retorted guardedly.

“It’s just as I said: I know him. I care about him and his family and you’ve got something in your voice that says you’re trying to help them…and there’s something else in your optics that says it might help you too,” Overclutch explained patiently.

Strain couldn’t help but stare at him, a bit aghast at how easily the older mech was able to read him. He hadn’t met someone like that since he’d first met Smokescreen himself. At length he glanced away, following Overclutch’s example and leaning on the counter as he abruptly realized how weary he was.

“If I were to tell you, it would probably endanger your life,” he sighed.

“Ah, that’s nothing new,” Overclutch waved it off.

“Then you wouldn’t be concerned or affected by a hypothetical situation where a strange mech—one who was just a little bit _different_ —was considered an object of desire by NET?” Again Strain was surprised when Overclutch didn’t automatically reel from the question. “Alright, apparently not. So…in this hypothetical situation, let’s say that mech had only one friend, one other mech who accepted him. They share secrets, some mundane, some not. Then the ones that aren’t catch up to that friend.” Ex-venting in frustration, he gestured a hand vaguely. “Clearly I’m not something that occurs _naturally_. If I try to help my friend, my own secrets will probably catch up with me. I need something that might prevent that from happening.”

 “It sounds like you need some help choosing what to force and what not to,” Overclutch suggested.

“I have someone, but he’s just as much a target as I am and from what I can tell, he’s hardly the kind to raise his voice against another mech, much less a fist.”

“Then maybe you should find someone who can be, someone who has a stake in it too but won’t back down: an enforcer.”

Strain snorted. “I doubt I can find anyone I would trust. I’m not sure I even trust the partner I currently have.”

“Well, you don’t have to trust them, lad; you only need to work with them long enough to get the job done and then you could cut them loose!” Overclutch pointed out. “You ought to decide how much you’re willing to risk to help your friend. From the way you describe it, your friend means a lot to you.”

“He does, but…”

“I don’t think you stayed around long enough to hear the rest of my story,” Overclutch remarked abruptly. “The one about the commander fighting the outlaws. Do you remember where I left off?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Strain protested. Overclutch raised his eyebrows and the younger mech huffed defeatedly. “I believe he had wiped energon on the outlaw’s foot and was about to give his last words.”

“Alright, then. That commander looked down at the oily energon he’d wiped on the villain’s foot and he said…well, no one ever found out _what_ it was that he said, cos it was then that he slammed his strong stasis cuffs on the outlaw’s foot. The metal on metal made a spark! If anyone was left to see it, they would’ve seen the commander and the outlaw vanish in a billow of flame.”

“Are you saying my best chance is mutual death?” Strain gasped.

Overclutch held up a hand, whispering conspiratorially, “Ah, but it wasn’t over yet! When the medics finally came to search the field, they found the outlaw, but there was no sign of the commander. As it turned out, he was already trudging bravely home! In the nanoklik before the spark became a full blaze, the fearless commander pushed the outlaw off of him and rolled down the nearby precipice to safety! He was alive and well! As it turns out, he reached home just in time to join his sparkmate in the hospital. As his burns were being treated, Commander Side-Winch met his newspark creation.” He paused, optics wistful. “My sire told me that story as soon as I was able to understand what it meant.”

“What _does_ it mean?”

“It means that desperate times call for desperate measures and sometimes, if you have something to live for, you may need to hurt a little to keep it. So how far are you willing to go for him? Can you dig down and get a little uncomfortable working with strangers?” Lifting himself off the counter, the old warrior tapped a file on the computer screen. “Once, my unit was sent on a covert operation to find out a certain ‘Exploration Trial’s’ newest targets. It wasn’t long before NET found us out and drove us off, but maybe some of those targets are still around. They might like the concept of safety in numbers and if so, they'll owe you a favor.” Lightly patting Strain’s shoulder, he moved back toward the side door. “The computer’s free for use. Thanks for the tip.”

“…Thank you,” Strain managed, earning a grin and a wave before Overclutch disappeared. Reeling slightly as he processed the conversation, Strain picked up his energon cake and peered more closely at the file: **Operation Plexus**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Overclutch is and will always be made of win <3


	12. Chapter 12

Windtrip had made some mistakes in his life. Those mistakes might seem small from an outside view—he was a successful councilmech, after all—but those mistakes had _led_ to his success. His greatest mistake had been discontent with his station. He had strived for greater things and that was why he was here with his hands secured behind his back after being kidnapped by the armed mechs on either side of him.

These mechs weren’t familiar, but Windtrip couldn’t help but figure they were leftovers from some mistake in the past that had come back to haunt him. He had been cornered, but he hadn’t made too big an attempt to run. With all of the recent deaths of his caste, he had been expecting it.

He was steered out of the open where no one would have to see it. The path they took was a familiar one; they ducked into an alley Windtrip passed every night on his way home from work. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be walking past it again.

As they approached the dead end, he was struck from behind. He barely had time to register the blow before he was struck again and fell face first to the ground. One of the mechs who had captured him continued the assault, kicking him when he was down and leaving harsh dents behind.

He was coughing and writhing on the ground by the time the other one snapped, “That’s enough. Stop it!” and dragged the other off of him. Despite himself, Windtrip almost wondered if there was a little hope for mercy, but that same mech who had stopped the other was now aiming his blaster.

“Dump out your credits,” his beater snapped, a thin smile crossing his features. “We want it to look like a robbery gone wrong, after all.”

Struggling onto his knees, Windtrip looked between the two and then set his jaw, hiking his doorwings up in cold defiance. “No. I’ll not be a pawn in whatever game you’re playing.”

“You think this is a game?” the gunmech demanded incredulously. “Credits, now!”

Windtrip shook his helm violently, biting out, “Whoever you’re working for… I know they’re behind all of the others. I’m not going to help them. If you gun me down, you show it for what it is: an assassination.”

The weapon was pressed against his chest. He braced himself for the pain of the blast to end the spark battering its chamber.

“If that’s the way you want to play it…” the gunmech growled. Windtrip swallowed hard, hoping with his last hope that this wouldn’t be for nothing.

 _I am not a coward_.

—

This hadn’t been the best orn in Vestige’s life. He hadn’t expected it to be; he hadn’t been given a good orn in quite a long time and had given up on having them. Bad orns were normal, but they were better than the worst.

Pursing his lips against the urge to spit out his expired energon, the street mech swallowed hard and took another large mouthful, grimacing further. The drink was lukewarm—99.5 degrees exactly—and it felt a bit slimy as it went down, but it would keep him upright, so he took what he could get.

On the bright side, he had recently paid a weighty sum for a small pack of Syk sticks, which he’d open as soon as he’d finished his energon. He glanced at them, swallowing again to get the remnants of the slime down, and then his glance held. They were one of the most addictive substances this side of Iacon—this side of _any_ nearby city—but they were the very image of innocence.

He should never have tried them in the first slaggin’ place, but he couldn’t change the past. Besides, he’d gotten past the addiction.

 _Yeah, sure, hypocrite_ , he chastised himself as he picked up the pack, feeling the crinkle of the synthetic wrapping between his fingers. It was all too familiar. He ought to burn it or, more easily, hurl it in the disposal chute he was currently perched on, but if he did, was there a way it could be traced back to him?

He couldn’t risk being recaptured. Then again, it would happen eventually; it wasn’t like he had a choice. Before he could make this small, hard decision, he perked up, jerking his helm around with optics wide.

There were feet scraping the ground, trying to be quiet.

_Frag._

Vestige heard them long before he saw them, so he launched from his perch on the disposal chute and into a sprint, cursing in a pedal tone in time with his steps.

“Frag, frag,  _frag_. Doesn’t he ever give up?” His stalker had been tracking him for at least five orns and Vestige wouldn’t admit it, but he was starting to get a little worried. He made up for his lack of speed with his elegance and sharp senses, but how long could those keep the tail off his back?

Right now Vestige had the lead and he could keep it, but if his enemy kept coming onto him, they might end up having an exchange of blows. That wouldn’t end well for them. Ducking around two corners, Vestige paused for just a nanoklik to shutter his optics and keep his hands relaxed. He vented deeply, wading through the streams of data.

 _Three cans of Visco, only two opened, a chrome-alloy pie, a cougaraider, seventeen retro-rats—scrap!_  He needed to get out of here. With all the other distractions, this area was the perfect place for his enemy to hide his scent.

Thus decided, he balled his fists and charged on. There was a steep incline coming. How far behind was the hunter? Eighty feet? Sixty?  _He’s too fast! He’ll catch me on the incline._

Maybe it was time they had this out. In the alley with the incline leading up and out, he would make his stand and then he would use the incline to get far, far away before his hunter could either get up and hobble after him or bleed out and be found by authorities.

Vestige stopped, swinging his arms for balance, and then turned, plating flaring defensively, fists twitching.

“No more of this,” he growled. “No more! Never again! C’mon, show yourself!” He waited for his hunter to come into view. It took a surprising amount of time, but the reveal was even more startling.

The mech who turned the corner couldn’t have been any older than his third frame. He was painted in bright turquoise and gold and wore a dull silver visor. He lifted his hands, one in a half-sparked wave and the other to one audial.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his vocals lilting smoothly, almost like he was singing the words. Vestige could hear a response from the mech’s comm. link, even from this distance, and his aero-blue optics narrowed.

_“Yes, he’s the one.”_

The young mech signed off, returning his attention to his target. Vestige shifted testily into a defensive position, but the mech made no move to approach. Instead, his visor’s lenses brightened into a milky white-violet color.

“Your hands are augmented!” he exclaimed, seeming both surprised and pleased. If he was working with the hunters Vestige had evaded in the past, why would he be so surprised by the discovery?

“Oh, thanks, I hadn’t noticed,” Vestige spat, flexing his fingers so thin, needle-like vibroblades could emerge from the tips. He was trying not to show how taken aback he was that the stranger had known before he had revealed it. It had to be something his visor did by changing colors, but the Praxians weren’t known for their augmentations…

“I’m not here to fight,” the mech assured him hurriedly, holding up his own hands submissively.

If he was the best this organization had to offer, they were losing their touch, Vestige decided, his mouth twisting into a smirk. “Too bad for you then; I am.”

“Excellent. A fighting spirit is exactly what we’re looking for,” another voice praised from behind him. Vestige gasped, whirling around to find a shorter mech, raven blue and gray, studying him coolly. He had gotten the drop on him. That  _never_  happened!

Vestige swung first, vibroblades’ light leaving short-lived rents in the air, but the short one was standing on the incline and thus had the higher ground; he dodged backward and all Vestige saw was the plating on his shoulders bristling before astonishingly long arms slithered around him, guiding him into the alley wall with just enough force to crack something.

Pain bloomed down Vestige’s entire backstrut and all the air left his vents, leaving him gasping. As he did, he was caught between swallowing hard and coughing as he detected the light refinement of Praxians and then, like an aftertaste, the thick smolder of stronger metals—much stronger. The latter was something he had only picked up once or twice that he could recall and it wasn’t too kind to his olfactory sensors, but he was more concerned with the fact that he was picking up both scents simultaneously. He thrashed, trying to swipe at the arms that pinned him, but his own arms were wedged at his sides.

“You’re a hybrid,” Vestige burst out. “Praxian and Culumexian!”

The owner of the long, long arms tilted his helm in a very Praxian manner. “Oh, thank you, I hadn’t noticed,” he tossed his earlier words back at him, but the tone was cultured and still very calm, like they were talking to each other across a table in a restaurant instead of in an alley. “If we’re continuing to say what’s plain to us, you’re a hybrid yourself,” Long Arms added, nodding to his visored comrade as he came closer. “So is he.”

 _Alright, if they want to make conversation…_ “What are you? You want me to guess?” Vestige demanded of the visored one. “Your vocals…Something almost  _slippery_  about ’em…Harmonexian?”

“That’s right,” he confirmed, smiling. “My name is Nightvision.”

Long Arms gave him a warning look. “Try again, Spectrum.” Nightvi—Spectrum gave him a rather annoyed look, which was pointedly ignored as Long Arms repeated, “This is Spectrum. My name is Strain.”

“Obviously not,” Vestige grumbled, thrashing again in the arms’ grasp. Strain made a soft noise and lowered him to the ground. As soon as the Culumexian death grip loosened, Vestige wrenched away, breaking into a sprint, only to be upended, dangle threateningly in midair for a klik or two, and then slam against the alley’s opposite wall. He yelped, cursed, and tried to will away the pain.

“Please,” Strain admonished impatiently. “You’re causing yourself more harm than good. We’re here to help.”

“I don’t need help!” Vestige howled, frustratingly unable to do anything in his current upended position. If he slashed at the arm holding him, he’d fall a good way and that would  _really_ slaggin’ hurt.

“That’s probably what you said before you went into rehab for your Syk addiction,” Spectrum pointed out. Vestige stilled, blinking wide optics.

“How do you…?” he started, swallowing the question when it was halfway out of his mouth. “You slaggers,” he growled instead. “Let me go—put me down and I might not shred you to pieces!”

“As interested as I would be to see the attempt,” Strain assured him, causing him to quiver in fury, “we’ve come with a proposition that would benefit you.” When Vestige did nothing but pant aggressively, he continued. “We’ll take you in—not to the authorities, you understand, but into our fold. You know how we’re viewed; augmented mechs such as ourselves aren’t often welcomed.”

Laughing bitterly, Vestige retracted his vibroblades and folded his arms. “And what would I get out of it?”

“Perhaps you weren’t listening,” Strain sighed, swinging him gently back and forth.

“You’ll get a home,” Spectrum very nearly crooned at him. “If not a home, a place to stay. Fresh energon. The opportunities to prove you _are_ fully over your addiction…and the chance to fight.”

“Fight what?” Vestige asked incredulously, startled when that question convinced Strain to lower him carefully to the ground. He appreciated that he hadn’t dropped him, not that he would ever admit that. “Fight what?” he repeated when he was standing upright.

Strain paused, genuinely considering the question. “Shall we say prejudice?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re trying to recruit me for some political rights act!” Vestige groaned, running a hand down his face. “There are plenty of zealots for that in other cities; you could easily get lost and try it with them!”

“Exactly,” Strain concurred. “But while the zealots fight on a political front, there are other, more hands-on methods to be taken in the meantime.” At Vestige’s unblinking stare, Strain reeled in his long arms and once they were almost a normal length, he spread his hands. “When we say fight, we  _do_  mean it. I trust you ran because you’re being hunted by the Neural Exploration Trial.”

“Well, if you’re stupid enough to say that name aloud, you probably won’t last long,” Vestige huffed, hoping his derision disguised his surprise.

“Oh, on the contrary, I’ve passed through Culumex’s NET-controlled Alchemist and lived to tell of it,” Strain retorted dismissively, but the grim pride sparking the dusky neon-blue of his optics made it clear that Vestige ought to be impressed. “I could share the secret to my success, if you’d care to join us.”

“But if he doesn’t want to…” Spectrum added, glancing at Strain pointedly. “We won’t force the issue, correct?”

“I give no promises.”

Vestige looked between them, almost amused by this little exchange. “You need to get your stories straight. So you, Specs—you said there’s energon where we’re going?”

“It’s Spectrum. Yes, that’s what I said.”

Pondering the expired energon cubes in his subspace, Vestige warily nodded. “Alright, fine. If energon’s part of the deal,” he groused, “I’ll hear you out.” _And, if I need to, I’ll_ cut _you out too_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of all of the Kumaikon assassinations I've written so far, Windtrip here was the hardest :(  
> But! This chapter wasn't in vain! Introducing Vestige, an Outcrosser I've been looking forward to writing. With his addition, everything begins to fall into place...


	13. Chapter 13

Praxus had been a home, base of operations, even a _lair_ for many vorns, but Corewheel knew all too well that NET operatives couldn’t afford to be too attached to any one place. In order to serve the cause precisely and wisely, one needed to be flexible.

Corewheel himself, for example, was just one part of a whole and he had two fully separate lives: one as a well-respected and influential Praxian businessmech, the other as a powerful lieutenant of NET. NET’s Praxian branch was in his hands and he took tender care of it, letting it grow under his careful supervision and then setting it free, bot by bot, to make its way into the rest of the city. Like its sire, this branch was a mixture of light and darkness: savvy in its business and quiet in its games.

Corewheel sat at his cluttered desk in his tower suite, leaning back in his chair and listening to the bustle outside his office. There were many mechs and femmes hard at work for him—schedulers, receptionists, delivery mechs—and each and every one of them contributed something to make this a clean and approachable place of business. Corewheel found it all a little bit bothersome; it was only a fraction of what he was meant to be doing and it already took up so much of his time.

In another way, however, the façade amused him, so he kept it going, letting the other half make it all worth something. Ex-venting in satisfaction, he tweaked a few of the controls hidden in his desk and the cybre-glass window panels shimmered, transforming to reveal the encrypted holopics of NET’s latest targets. The images were constantly changing, updating every nanoklik with intersecting footage as the unsuspecting bots bobbed and weaved in and out of NET’s jurisdiction.

“Um…Sir Corewheel, m-may I come in? Message to deliver,” a timid voice ventured from the doorway, almost unheard beneath the overlapping sound bytes.

“Then deliver it,” Corewheel suggested, optics never leaving the window.

“Sir, we—we have an update on the killings of the higher caste.”

Corewheel waited for the cowering messenger to elaborate and when he didn’t, the larger mech frowned lightly. Was it too much to ask that he simply be allowed to enjoy the view from his window in peace? Apparently so. He paused the footage, swiveled his chair around and rose in a fluid motion, striding toward the small blue and black mech and steering him further into the room.

“Which kind are you?” he asked, his voice low and almost gentle despite the firm grip he had on the messenger’s arm. “Are you one of the Vigil?”

“Y-Yes,” the smaller mech whimpered, clutching his data pad like a lifeline, doorwings bowing submissively against his back.

Corewheel nodded in sympathy. “I thought so. Well, the problem with that, little one, is that you’re letting your programming get in the way of doing your job. That’s not fair to me and to your carers, is it? The NET code is beautifully crafted and it’s meant to help you, but you’re misusing it.”

“I—I don’t mean to—”

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t. But the fact remains that if I tell your carers how you’re misusing their gift to you, it will hurt them. They won’t want to care for you anymore. Is that what you want?

“No, I don’t think so…”

“So, little one, please…take some deep vents, brace yourself, and…” His grip on the small arm tightened, earning a squeak from its owner as he leaned down and spoke clearly. “ _Give_ me your _message_.”

Nodding vigorously, the courier sped toward Corewheel’s desk as soon as the lieutenant released him, hooking up the data pad and projecting its contents onto the window, minimizing the frozen footage. Corewheel raised an eyebrow when he saw the new image: a news report on the unexplained murder of Windtrip, a well-known councilmech.

“Um, this one wasn’t like the others,” the courier explained. “It’s less subtle. He was shot at very close range; it—it wasn’t even made to look like an accident!”

“I can see that,” Corewheel assured him, his frown deepening. Placing a hand on the messenger’s back, he guided him closer to the image. “But do you notice what _else_ is wrong with this picture?” The little mech floundered for a klik or two and Corewheel bent down, lowering his voice and smiling gently at him. “Windtrip here was a _Loyalist_.”

The messenger’s optics widened and his doorwings trembled as he gasped, “H-He was one of us?!”

“That’s right, my friend. And that means this sweet little low-caste uprising has made their first mistake.” Straightening, he let his smile widen as he moved his hand to the messenger’s helm, patting it fondly. “Please tell one of the receptionists to assemble my coordinative staff. One of our brothers has been killed and we take care of our brothers. We’ll honor his memory by finding a way to address this challenge to NET’s authority.”

“That’s…actually another message I have for you, sir,” the courier offered with a weak smile.

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Well, um, Lux and Lustre were wondering when you intended to take advantage of our…representative…You know, the one in the field?”

“Oh! Thank you for reminding me, little one. Invite them to the meeting as well, please. Run along!”

—

“Come on, everyone, I don’t have the whole orn!” Stellite complained, rolling her optics as she watched her staff scurry to finish their work before her gaze landed on its shoddiness. She still couldn’t believe how skittish they were. It wasn’t as if Windtrip had been their manager; _she_ was and she intended to maintain her position, no matter how much nervousness and stress she was forced to hide.

It was…unusual, Windtrip dying so suddenly. His staff hadn’t been very forthcoming with the details of his death; all Stellite knew was that he had been killed. Some rumors were that it had been a robbery, but others insisted that it was a murder for no apparent reason but energon lust.

Whatever the cause, Stellite couldn’t afford to let that shake her. With Windtrip gone, the argument for the latest law about middle-casters had crumbled and Stellite could imagine that the bid for that law would crumble with it. She needed to stake her claim and press her own opinions on her fellow council members before another, bolder opponent stepped up.

Her comm. link rang abruptly, sending a shot of pain through her helm, but her plans to snap at the caller were forgotten when she saw that it was her sweetspark. Easing into a smile, she began moving toward her office so she could take the call in private, but one of her aides moved into her path and interrupted.

“Madam, there’s a power outage in your office,” the aide admitted, looking like the last thing she wanted was to be the bearer of bad news. When Stellite gave her a look that threatened demotion, she added hastily, “A technician is working on it as we speak!”

“Tell him it should be done before I get there,” Stellite commanded, skirting past her and then hesitating for half a klik, guilt poking at her. Sighing, she glanced back at the defeatedly-drooping aide. “I’m sorry, I’m just under a bit of pressure.”

The aide perked up, seeming startled by this. “I…it’s alright, madam,” she offered cautiously. “No harm done.”

“Thank you. Bring an orb lamp along, would you, so the technician and I can see?” The aide nodded vigorously and Stellite moved toward her office, nodding to the technician and not really paying attention to what exactly he was doing. She had never been fond of the dark, however, so when the aide wired the orb lamp into her office power, she was quick to smile at her and turn it on.

The orb lamp surged just as she touched it, electricity coursing through her; her limbs seized up and her whole body jerked uncontrollably. White static blew through her vision and a loud buzzing sound started in her ears, before the orb lamp finally blew out and she fell forward, her frame smoking and grayed long before she landed.

—

As Stellite fell victim to the surge, her sweetspark, Forethought, was vaulting over a stack of boxes in his path. He very nearly stumbled but recovered well from it, skidding around the next corner and stumbling again over a thick cord someone had left on the floor.

Lovely. If he survived this, he’d have to find someone to blame for that.

Stellite wasn’t picking up the call, much to Forethought’s dismay. After the first attempt on his life, which he had narrowly escaped, he had pretty much sworn off trying to form another friendship with any of his coworkers, in case it wasn’t safe for them to be associated with him, but now some new assailants—likely friends of the first one—had found him and he didn’t know who else to call. He had already put in a call to the police, but he didn’t know if they were going to get here in time.

His first dodge with death had been all too fortunate; he had ducked down, unsuspecting, just as a blade was swung at him, and had fled as soon as he realized what was happening. But a few quintuns had passed since the incident and every orn since then, inch by inch, he had let his guard down. It might prove to be the last mistake he ever made.

He couldn’t think that way! Gasping, Forethought rounded another corner. _Brave spark, Forethought_ … That was one of Stellite’s fondest political phrases. He had always been more timid than she; that was apparent from the orn they met, but she had given him a considerably bolder streak. She had lifted him up, made him brave, but the thought of confronting his attackers still wasn’t an option. He may be braver, but bravery couldn’t make up for his condition; his metals were weaker than most Praxians’, so even if he did face them, he didn’t have the strength to win.

It was best to be fast then.

Immediately after this thought occurred to him, he halted in his tracks when he heard a strange mumbling, like a radio frozen between two stations. His spark leapt when he realized what it was: _people_. There were people ahead! They could help him, they could save him! His pace quickened again, first into a jog and then a sprint as the voices grew louder. He was going so quickly that he didn’t even notice the needle-thin cord placed at a specific height until he felt its slice, hitching around his legs and sending him crashing down.

Gasping, he automatically thrashed, the wire scoring his legs as it grew more and more tangled, making the plating sticky with energon. “No!” he whispered as the voices halted suddenly and their owners loomed over him. “Please—please—”

“You got lucky the first time, Forethought. This is overdue,” one of the silhouettes informed him grimly, drawing a blade much like the one he had escaped.

Tears rose in Forethought’s optics, reflecting the blade’s light. _Brave spark…_

—

Grandswitch sighed deeply, sipping at the energon he had been given at the start of this abruptly-called assembly. The mech standing at the front of the room had set up some projectors which flashed holopics—what he called “evidence” in the case he was making. As the young mech spoke, Grandswitch idly tuned him out, more interested in looking around at his colleagues: clerks, aides, and guards to the many council members who used this building. Some of them were nodding along to what the speaker was saying, but others seemed as skeptical as he was.

“You can’t deny that this is concerning!” the young mech exclaimed, gesturing to the holopics of various council members. “Haven’t you seen the signs? Do you see them now, at least? These were people you all know, people you’ve worked with, and now they’re all dead!”

“But they’re from other political parties,” the guard immediately across from Grandswitch huffed disbelievingly. “They aren’t the ones we’re charged to protect.”

“I know, I know, but that’s the point!” the speaker protested. “If all of them are the ones who are dying, it won’t be long before the ones we’re charged with protecting are targeted!”

“Targeted?” one of the femmes in the room echoed. “What are you implying?”

The speaker hesitated, bracing himself before admitting, “I have…connections…on the police force who have reason to believe that the higher castes are being targeted in a subversive attack.” The room erupted in mixed voices and he winced, holding up his hands. “No, listen! You need to listen to me! Can you really think that _all_ of these deaths are coincidental, that they’re accidents?!”

Rising to his feet, Grandswitch hollered, “Novice, did you call this meeting because you’re paranoid? Or are you just scared of the lower castes you had to leave behind for this promotion?”

“I’m not scared!” the novice retorted desperately. “But who says the lower castes aren’t capable of something like this? If they were to think of moving up in the world—”

“Now _that_ is paranoia!” the guard across the table spoke again, following Grandswitch’s example and rising, motioning for the rest of his buzzing coworkers to be quiet. “Let me guess, you aren’t going to trust me just because the previous guard in my place died a few diuns ago?!” The presenter swallowed, lost for words, and his fellow guardsmech nodded firmly. “That’s what I thought. And you know what?” He glanced around at all of his gathered colleagues. “This one’s just too smart for his own good.”

They had no time to be puzzled at this comment before their colleague pulled his weapon and something under the table went off, blasting the unsuspecting targets in every direction. Several of them died instantly, too close to the bomb, and others were shot through their chests and helms before they could even hit the floor. Those that were left lay stunned. Grandswitch had always been resilient; his vision cleared quickly and he automatically reached for his sidearm, but it had been dislodged by the explosion and lay just out of reach.

The novice saw it too, but just as he shifted toward it, the traitor shot the floor next to his hand. “Don’t,” he warned, but just after he said so, he smiled. “I think you’re the first one up here to figure it out. We could use someone like you, y’know; you were a middle-caster just last quintun, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” the junior guard whispered.

“Well, then. I’m sure my superiors would like someone like you: smart, well-equipped…And the pay is good; you could touch up your paintjob!” As the double agent explained, Grandswitch began inching ever so stealthily toward his weapon. Once it was in his hand, he reeled upright, blasting the gunmech’s knee strut and sending him down.

“Run!” Grandswitch barked at the novice, who scrambled upright but hesitated, glancing between his superior and the conspirator, who was already starting to recover. “Do I have to say it again, recruit?!  _Run!_ ”

Bluestreak ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are definitely escalating; the "accidents" are starting to come into the light as much, much more!  
> ...  
> Let's just say NET doesn't like that.


	14. Chapter 14

Torchlight looked idly up as Margin emerged from the backroom, wiping her hands clean on a shammy.

“Well?” the lieutenant prompted, smiling expectantly. “Any stroke of luck with our old friend?”

“No. Smokescreen still refuses to talk,” she grumbled, tossing the shammy in the direction of one of the tables, where it landed with the sticky splat of energon recently spilled.

“Did you expect anything else?” Torchlight pointed out. “He’s been one of our best for a long while now; he knows when to weld his mouth shut and he’s good at keeping it that way. I have to say, though…I suspect Railway’s hoping for better news.”

“And let me guess: you have a suggestion?” Margin quipped snidely.

Despite the sarcasm in the words, Torchlight’s smile widened as he sat up in his chair, a thrill of glee making his sharp, narrow doorwings flutter. “Wayfair and I could give it a go; I suspect he wouldn’t hold out quite so long!”

Margin treated him to a venomous stare, but he simply kept smiling in the face of it, the picture of eager innocence and the desire to please. “My team doesn’t need _any_ help from you and your brute,” the femme deadpanned, pivoting away from him and marching through the rows of technicians and weapon engineers, slapping an open hand against the doorwings of those who weren’t keeping up with the others.

“Now you know that’s not quite true,” Torchlight protested, leaping from his seat and pressing close behind her. “You and your friends from the other site have been trying for a diun, after all. My partner and I have earned our place as enforcers; we do good work for Railway, do we not?”

“Railway wants me on this, not you,” Margin growled, barely looking back at him, her EM field radiating hostility. “Why don’t you bother _him_ about it?!”

“Because then I would have to tell him that you sent me,” Torchlight retorted cheerfully. “Listen, listen, my point is that Railway is under a bit of pressure, getting control of those runners who decided to fast-forward on the plan and get sloppy with their kills—I still can’t believe they shot that one mech pointblank, can you?—and Wayfair and I were the ones who _caught_ Smokescreen in the first place, so we ought to have the chance to crack at him, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” Margin remarked as they emerged into the outer camp. Turning on him, she clamped a hand around his thin neck. “Or maybe you should remember your place, shut your mouth and take what you’re _offered_ and no more! Go do that!” With that she shoved him backward, letting him hit the nearest wall with a heavy clang as she strode away.

Torchlight massaged his throat, his smile finally dropping as he directed a snarl at the femme’s retreating form and weighed the risks of shooting her in the back as he had Smokescreen. “Thinks she’s Railway’s first lieutenant,” he muttered, rolling a fresh tweak out of his right doorwing. “The only reason she can order me around is because she’s his _consort_ , not one of his officers!”

Rubbing his neck once more, he wandered off in search of his partner. Since word had come out that some of the runners were starting to lose their impulse-control, Wayfair had become grim and quiet. Torchlight couldn’t help but feel for the mech; he hadn’t been a talker to begin with and these past few orns, he had gone from rarely smiling to _never_ smiling. It had been Torchlight’s hope that torturing Smokescreen would bring a spark back to his friend’s optics, but now that Margin had scrapped that prospect…

Nevertheless, he couldn’t let his good mood be dampened by an overreaching tramp. He would have to settle for trying again to cheer up Wayfair on his own. He spotted Wayf’ several yards away and opened his mouth to call out to him, trailing off when he saw the comm. unit Wayfair had pressed against his audial. Torchlight frowned lightly. He didn’t recognize that unit, and he had supplied Wayfair’s usual comm. himself. Had Railway given it to him? Why would their C.O. give Wayf’ a separate unit for no reason? Curiosity piqued, the small mech fluffed his doorwings innocently and followed his friend at a distance.

Wayfair led Torchlight all the way out to the Outlands, where Torchlight could see that some runners’ freshly-graying frames lay scattered. _That’s what happens when you get impatient,_ he mused, wiggling his fingers at the nearest corpse in something of a parting wave before returning his attention to Wayfair. It was then that the bulky mech came to a stop, holding up a hand in a wordless greeting, and a slim, glossy indigo mech emerged to meet him. Golden optics widening, Torchlight ducked behind one of the vertical slabs that the corpses were bound to.

“It’s been a while since your last report, Wayfair,” the slim mech remarked, his voice clipped and cold. “How have you been treated?”

“Well, Sir Lux,” Wayfair rumbled. “Some fear me. Others call me their friend.” Torchlight felt a surge of concern at the words—more prominently, at how flatly Wayfair spoke them.

“That’s good news to hear. Unfortunately, your welfare isn’t why I’m here. I’ve come on behalf of Windtrip.” As Torchlight searched his processor for the name, the stranger spread his hands questioningly. “After some investigation, it seems as though you did nothing to stop his murder.”

 _Stop it? Why would he stop it?_ Torchlight wondered as Wayfair tilted his helm and stated, slowly and deliberately, “It was a miscalculation. I was overseeing another mission and was delayed…much to my regret.”

“As it should be,” Lux hissed, reaching up to hook a talon under Wayfair’s chin guard and pull their faces close together. “Your carer is wondering if you’re becoming too passive, if you need a reminder of the authorities to which you report.”

 _“Carer.”_ That word chilled the energon in Torchlight’s veins. Shaking his helm minutely, he clenched his optics shut for a nanoklik, trying to think.

 _He couldn’t possibly—Wayfair couldn’t possibly be a—Could he? But…that would mean that_ Windtrip _was…Pits, did we kill who I think we killed? But Wayf’s been more than happy to kill the others. That would mean Windtrip was different…He_ was _NET, which means Wayfair is! But he’s my partner; he loves me! Why wouldn’t he tell me?_

When he looked again, he saw Wayfair swallow with difficulty, droplets of energon sliding down the talon under his chin. “Sir…” he droned softly, lifting his hands reflexively to remove the talon before faltering and ever so slowly forcing them back to his sides, allowing the pain.

 _Maybe he just never got the chance,_ Torchlight realized. _Maybe he’s too afraid of that—that Lux character!_ Spark clenching hotly, he shifted to a lower stance and ghosted a hand down his sidearm, but Lux offered Wayfair a tight-lipped smile and withdrew his claw then, flicking the energon away.

“We’re extracting you,” he announced briskly. “You will report back to your carer. I’m going on ahead of you; wait ten minutes exactly and then follow me.”

Wayfair inclined his helm a few inches. “Should I report back to the **Kumaikon** one last time?” he muttered, morose.

 _He wants to say goodbye to me,_ Torchlight realized, shoulders slumping in dismay.

“No, that’s not necessary; you wouldn’t want to be late. Return to the tower and submit yourself to the proper follow-up treatment,” Lux ordered, waving a hand dismissively before transforming and taking his leave. Wayfair stood quietly for ten more minutes, wiping at his chin every so often, and Torchlight swallowed with difficulty, wondering what he was pondering.

When Wayfair transformed and made his way in Lux’s wake, Torchlight mustered his courage and followed. His partner led him on a twisting trek, in and out and in and out of the city center—likely in an attempt to lose any followers, but Torchlight was a persistent mech. This was the only bot Torchlight cared about in the **Kumaikon** —the only bot he cared about in anything, really—and he wasn’t about to let him wander off to an unknown destination where an unknown fate waited for him!

When Corewheel Corporation loomed over him, however, Torchlight sprang out of his alt. mode and ducked back, nearly slamming into a group of passerby and earning dirty looks for it. He paid them no mind, mouth opening in disbelief. _This_ was NET’s operation, hiding in plain sight? He didn’t have long to absorb this information; Wayfair was now ambling through the tower doors.

Biting back a whimper, Torchlight darted in after him, quite sure of what he was planning to do and also how glitched he would have to be to attempt it.

He had passed and even entered this building so many times, whenever he was scoping out how big the business was getting, Torchlight mused, glancing wildly around at the various staff members and flinching away from anyone who brushed past him. How many of them were like Wayfair, here against their will, and how many of them were the NET coders? When he was young, he had considered applying here for a job! Venting hurriedly, he pushed those thoughts aside and picked up the pace.

“Wayfair!” he gasped, rushing to grab his partner’s arm. “Wayf’, come with me—”

Wayfair blinked a few times as he was dragged into the elevator he was already approaching. “What are you doing here?” he questioned warily as Torchlight jammed the button to close the elevator doors and go to a random floor—anywhere to get away from the NET workers on the ground level. As soon as the lift began moving, Torchlight rounded on him, bristling with tense anxiety.

“I’m getting you out!” he announced urgently. “You don’t need to do what they’re telling you! You don’t need to leave; I can find a way to protect you, maybe even…I don’t know, reset whatever they did to you! They said you’re doing follow-up appointments, right? So that means it hasn’t gone too far! I…” He hesitated, wringing his hands for a few kliks. “I consider you my friend and—and friends shouldn’t have to be separated by NET, right?”

Wayfair blinked again before lowering his optics. “Right,” he concurred lowly. “I still want to work with you, Torchlight, but I don’t see how we—”

Fluttering his doorwings hopefully, Torchlight gripped his arm again reassuringly. “We’ll figure it out; we always do,” he soothed. “We’re the smartest mechs I know!” No sooner had he spoken did the elevator jostle to a halt. Gasping, Torchlight reached to hit another button, but the doors were already opening.

Revealed outside the elevator was a long, clean hallway, empty aside from a desk occupied by a femme with pearly lavender paint. She glanced up at the elevator’s startled occupants and smiled brightly, rising from her seat.

“Oh! Wayfair, I heard you would be returning,” she exclaimed warmly, bustling toward the pair of them and pulling them out into the hallway, apparently oblivious to Torchlight’s panic. “And I see you’ve brought a visitor.” Patting Torchlight’s face, she added, “It’s alright; don’t be nervous! I’m sure you’ll like it here!”

“Actually, Wayfair and I weren’t planning to stay long,” Torchlight shot back, trying not to stutter in his nervousness. “Right, Wayf?”

Wayfair glanced down at him, squeezing his shoulder with a warm hand. _I’ll handle this_. “Lustre, this is my friend Torchlight,” he explained calmly. “He’s with the **Kumaikon** , but we’re both hoping that we can continue to work together.”

Lustre paused, glancing between them for a nanoklik before beaming and clapping her hands together. “Well, that can be arranged!” Scurrying back to her intercom, she crooned sweetly, “Lux, sweetspark, Wayfair’s arrived with a friend!”

Torchlight gulped, looking past Wayfair toward the nearest doorway. Lux emerged within kliks, taking in the scene with cold optics.

“A friend?” he echoed derisively. “Passives don’t have friends.”

Torchlight trembled lightly, dodging away from the three of them as he demanded, “What’s a Passive?”

“Oh, it’s one of our coding branches, dear,” Lustre explained pleasantly, perching on her desk. “Just like Windtrip, who your **Kumaikon** fellows killed, was a Loyalist! I’m a Trustee and Wayfair here is a Passive—but I’m sure, Lux, that Passives can have friends! How about we try to prove it? Wayfair, what do you feel for this mech, Torchlight? Isn’t it friendship?”

Wayfair paused, looking the panicked Torchlight up and down. “I don’t feel anything for you,” he admitted, monotone.

“Aww…” Lustre slumped her shoulders, as if in disappointment, but her broad smile remained. “Well, let’s see if that changes afterward, when we can call Torchy one of us! Shall we get started?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, I actually felt really bad for doing this :/ Unfortunately, it's just the prelude to what comes next!


	15. Chapter 15

“Ordinance, you and Radius are being reassigned, effective immediately. The examiner’s determined that Stellite’s cause of death was unnatural. Interrogate the technician who was working in her office and then bring your notes to me,” Prowl ordered, tossing the pertinent data pads onto Ordinance’s desk and barely giving a second glance to Radius as he hurried to steady them before they slid onto the floor.

Pushing through a slow wave of nausea, Prowl spun around and addressed another pair of partners. “Alkahest, Quadric, you work in tandem with them. You’ve been assigned to the murder of Forethought; I want to know where the frag his protection detail was when he was being stabbed _seventeen_ times in the spark chamber. When they get here, send them to Chief Nightscope immediately. Understood?” Another set of pads was deposited onto their desks and then Prowl dodged past a clerk in his way, making a beeline for his office.

“Sir? Lieutenant—” the clerk pursued him, waving a data pad of her own in his general direction.

“I’m quite preoccupied at the nanoklik, Streamdive,” Prowl sighed, already halfway into his office. The clerk ex-vented hurriedly and ducked in behind him.

“I’m aware of that, sir, and I’m sorry to bother you, but someone left a message with me for your optics only—”

“Then I suggest you leave it on my desk for my earliest possible convenience!” Prowl cut her off sharply, motioning to the growing stacks around them. “Just be sure to put it where I’ll be able to find it in all of this mess!”

Streamdive hesitated, clutching the pad more tightly as she peered at him. “Sir…permission to speak freely?” At Prowl’s resigned nod, she shifted closer. “You look like you could use a few more joors of recharge.”

Prowl blinked, now fully aware of how his optics ached, and then snorted lightly. “I might agree with that assessment. Perhaps if I could recharge at all, it would help.” Streamdive offered him the data pad with a sympathetic smile and he took both gratefully. “You can expect a message in reply within the joor.”

“Take your time,” Streamdive urged gently on her way out. Prowl huffed again and then scanned the message, mouth opening in disbelief.

**_Prowl:_ **

**_I suspect that you’re a busy mech right now, tracking down those enemies of yours, but if you get this message, I want you to know that you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers. If there’s anything I can do to help Smokescreen, all you need to do is ask, but it seems like our mutual friend plans to have the situation well in hand. Trust him; I know how much responsibility you take on yourself sometimes._ **

**_Overclutch_ **

**_P.S. If you happen to hear that my shop shows signs of forced entry, there’s no need to worry; it’s one of those necessary sacrifices that’s part of a larger story._ **

Sinking down in his chair, Prowl read the message twice more and then slipped it into his subspace where it wouldn’t get mixed with the other pads. It was safe to assume that Strain was the ‘mutual friend’ Overclutch meant, though he didn’t share that idea. Why was Strain above ground again, much less visiting Overclutch, and what did it mean that he had the situation in hand? Whatever the reasoning, Prowl had no intention of _trusting_ him, despite his old mentor’s words. If Overclutch knew that Strain was partially responsible for Smokescreen’s capture, he might not be so quick to urge.

Smokescreen…Since Bluestreak had learned of his capture, Prowl had been the one to keep faith, the one who reassured him vehemently that their cousin was alive. “Railway won’t kill him without making it a performance for my benefit,” he pointed out guiltily. “And I suspect he needs something from Smokescreen first.”

“With these three new murders, however, how can I be sure?” he muttered, sifting through his stacks of notes. “They’re growing bolder, more blatant, which means that the large performance will be coming sooner rather than—”

An abrupt clenching of his spark froze his tongue and his fingers, letting the pad he was holding slip through them and clatter onto the desk. Prowl drew in a vent that was unnaturally shaky against the sensation of cold quivering in his internals, stirring the spark ache like a keen wind: adrenaline, and fear.

Prowl ex-vented, very slowly, and then vented again, holding it and waiting tensely. Bluestreak would soon dispatch of the menace, whatever it was, and relax. Prowl had to be patient for this; with the pain and fear of this past diun and Bluestreak’s promotion to Assembly guard, he should come to expect Bluestreak feeding adrenaline into him. When the sensation didn’t dissipate, Prowl caught his vents a third time, trying to coax his brother into calming down.

_Be reasonable…_

To Prowl’s frustration and growing concern, Bluestreak’s panic only climbed, clawing its way up from the pit of Prowl’s internals to scrabble at his half of their spark. Impulsively Prowl summoned the plasma screen set into his office wall. As soon as he laid optics on the news, on the smoke and flame billowing out of one of the top floors of the Assembly building, Prowl shot out of his seat and over his desk, felling most of its contents in his scramble to reach the door.

_~:Bluestreak, where are you?!:~_

“Prowl!”

The lieutenant stopped up short at the cry, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with his brother as he crashed into his office. Gasping, Prowl stumbled back, reaching a hand to catch himself on the desk. Misjudging the distance, he gave in to defeat, his legs collapsing underneath him and sending him onto the floor.

“Prowl? What is it? What’s wrong?” Bluestreak demanded, kneeling across from him, hands hovering anxiously in the hopes that he could help. Venting raggedly, Prowl grabbed one of them, the contact allowing Bluestreak to sense his EM field, the volume of his emotions and thoughts as he wordlessly broadcasted them: the ebbing fear, the relief and exhaustion, and the bracing ache.

“Tell me what happened.”

Shifting closer to him, Bluestreak began describing the scene of the attack, how Grandswitch had saved his life and, as far as he knew, had sacrificed his own. Prowl stayed quiet, trying to recover a bit of his dignity as he listened and finding that his well of energy for it had run out. He stared at Bluestreak for a long minute after he had finished and then leaned back against his desk.

“Thank Primus you’re safe,” he rasped. “I thought—I thought I would lose you too.”

“Wait, Prowl, you’re implying that you’ve lost someone,” Bluestreak pointed out warily. Prowl nodded faintly, not quite looking him in the optics.

“Brother…I’m tired. I’m so tired. I’ve exhausted everything I have in me—every reserve, every favor, every pretense, every _hope_ —and it’s done nothing. With this bombing, the **Kumaikon** have finally come into the light, which means that Smokescreen could very well be the next order of business. I’m no closer to finding him than I have been and I’ve run out of time. He’ll be killed because of me.”

Alarmed, Bluestreak shook his helm vigorously. “No, no, no, Prowl, that’s not true! Really! Listen, the guard who turned on us tried to _recruit_ me—at gunpoint, no less. They’re still planning, pulling people into their fold; we still have time!” Prowl’s optics flickered wearily toward him and Bluestreak forced an encouraging smile. “This isn’t their endgame…not yet…and I’m not going to let you give up until Smokescreen’s back home. Alright?”

After a few moments, Prowl nodded wordlessly and Bluestreak pulled him up from the floor and into a hug.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Prowl muttered again, leaning their helms together.

“Yeah,” Bluestreak concurred gently. “And Smokescreen’s going to be too.”

—

“If you’re going to speak to me, come into the room and sit,” Strain said shortly as he pulled three medium-grade energon cubes out of the cold storage. There was a short pause and then he heard Vestige’s reluctant tread behind him.

“I prefer high-grade,” the newest arrival informed him sourly. Strain could tell he’d been hoping to catch him by surprise, but Strain had never been easy to surprise—or if he had, it had been conditioned out of him a long time ago.

“You’ve been living on the street,” he reminded Vestige of what he knew all too well. “Drinking expired energon; you probably have no resistance to high-grade effects. I won’t risk that.”

Another pause was ended when Vestige cleared his throat and commented, “You know Spectrum went above ground again, right?”

Was he trying to make conversation? Strain suppressed a small smile, amused at the thought, and straightened, placing the cubes on the counter next to the cold storage unit. “Yes, of course. What about it?”

“Aren’t you afraid he’ll get lost on the way back?” Vestige asked, sounding all too innocent. “Or worse, get captured by _someone_ who doesn’t like what you’re doing here?”

“That’s why you’re here,” Strain quipped tonelessly as he cracked open the three cubes. Spectrum usually did this with a tool of some sort, but Strain’s heritage was useful in more ways than one. In the back of his processor, he noted that he hadn’t heard any of the recently added chairs at the table being pulled back; Vestige was still standing, either defying him or…about to take action.

Strain took the open cubes into his arms and pivoted, finding Vestige immediately behind him. Face dark and twisted, the other mech swept a hand up, vibroblades arcing out of his fingertips to threaten Strain’s throat.

Strain lifted his optics to the other mech’s, ex-venting evenly. He’d dealt with many threats in his life; this one wasn’t too concerning. “I assume you have a question,” he prompted.

“How did you find me?” Vestige demanded in a growl. “Who are you and who do you work for?”

“I’ve been a…researcher, of sorts, for many vorns,” Strain replied. “I looked you up. That’s the only question out of the three that hasn’t already been answered.”

“And after your friend Spectrum said his name was Nightvision, I’m supposed to believe your real name is Strain?” Vestige sneered, fingers twitching so the blades’ humming intensified. “I’m supposed to believe you want to _hire_ me?”

“Why else would I have brought you to our base of operations?” Strain countered, resisting the urge to sigh. He had expected Vestige to have some trouble settling in, but he had hoped to avoid being on this end of his blades for a quintun at least. “And whether or not you believe it, my name is, has been, and will continue to be Strain. I  _am_  surprised you didn’t bring up these topics when we brought you here an orn ago.”

“Well, I hoped you’d start to trust me. I got impatient,” Vestige admitted, optics scanning him intently. Strain let him look, but when the vibroblades didn’t pull away, he straightened, gears in his shoulders shifting with a quiet click. That got Vestige’s attention and his other hand was brought to bear. “Who do you work for?” he repeated ominously.

Coming to full height, keeping steady optic contact and matching his tone, Strain answered, “I work for  _no one_.” If this was going to become a power struggle or a risk to their operation, Strain would end it before it began. He had killed so many; what was one more?

He almost faltered at his own thought, though externally he stayed completely still. His leader had taken up that mindset and where had it gotten him? All that was left of him were Strain’s on-and-off dreams about him and the others.

Stuffing those thoughts in a subfolder, Strain returned his attention to the task at hand just as Spectrum arrived in the doorway. “Strain, Vestige…What are you doing?” he hummed in concern. 

“Discussing employment matters,” Strain answered flatly. The question was clear: if Vestige was going to try killing him, would he do it in front of a witness? As far as Vestige knew, Spectrum could have more than one augmentation and be far more dangerous than he seemed.

Finally, frustrated, Vestige retracted his blades and dropped his hands to Strain’s shoulders, pressing down on them tightly. It was a mockingly friendly touch, so Strain shrugged him off and clicked his augmentation into standby in a fluid motion before taking the energon to the table, seeing phantoms in his peripheral vision.

_“Guess who, new mech!” Kiln crooned, clamping his hands over his optics. Strain took it in stride, still sipping his energon despite his sudden blindness. Kiln made an impatient noise and repeated, “Well, guess who!”_

_“Oh, lay off him, Kiln,” the only femme in the group sighed. EM field tinged with disappointment, Kiln dropped his hands. Strain watched as he came around the table, nudging her in annoyance and throwing himself into the seat closest to their leader._

_“Cin, are you sure you can’t exchange her—or for that matter, him? They’re both wound too tight!”_

_Incinerator swallowed his gulp of energon and smiled ruefully at his frustrated kin. “I’m afraid not, dear brother. Boomerang is only looking out for you.”_

_“For me?” Kiln scoffed. “How is ruining my fun looking out for me?”_

_“He’s supposed to be dangerous,” Highstake hissed in an exaggerated whisper, giving Strain a wary look across the table. “He’ll kill ya and then just keep on sipping that cube of his.”_

_“On the contrary,” Strain interrupted, “I’d like to get through my morning fuel before I kill you.”_

_Kiln swallowed, glancing at Incinerator questioningly. Incinerator leaned across and patted his brother’s shoulder before calmly folding his hands on the tabletop, offering no more reassurance._

If Strain wasn’t mistaken, their leader had been impressed with his words. It went to show what kind of mechs the two of them were. In any case, Vestige seemed to sense his attitude without any verbal threats. The three of them took their fuel quietly and once all the cubes were empty, Strain slid a data pad across to Vestige and planted his hands on the tabletop as Incinerator used to.

“Shall we begin the orn?”

Vestige scanned the pad with minimal interest, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, the **Kumaikon**. You’re going after one of them? This mech…Smokescreen?”

“You already know of the **Kumaikon**?” asked Spectrum in surprise.

“Yeah, I’ve had some dealings with them,” Vestige replied vaguely, waving a hand. “But why should I want to have any more? Why should I even care about this Smokescreen? Go on; make a case or something.”

“If you’ve had ‘dealings’, I suspect you know that they fund their operation with various criminal undertakings,” Strain remarked, “including the making and marketing of Syk?”

Vestige’s optics narrowed as he slid the reading back to its owner, but Strain could clearly see a glint in those optics that said he was paying more attention. “What about it?”

“Judging by the fact that we found you in the slums, it’s safe to say that drug almost destroyed your life, not to mention countless others! Don’t you want to see it gone?” Spectrum urged.

Vestige glanced between them, considering. He knew for a fact that the **Kumaikon** dealt in Syk and had known it for quite a while—ever since he started using the substance, in fact. As the creation of a renowned mnemosurgeon, the stress of what he had to live up to had become too much to bear. One of his closer friends had introduced him to the right people and, eventually, had become his supplier.

He had felt so much stronger with the Syk coursing through him, he mused with a stab of regret. The only reason he was found out was because he’d gotten sloppy covering the signs. Rehab had been an ugly affair, but not as ugly as NET swooping in on him. He’d escaped before they could get him to their lab but opted not to return to anyone he knew. Why bother when that would be the first place NET looked?

How much of that did Strain and Specs know? Vestige wasn’t sure of that, but he was sure of something else: where there were dealers, there was a stash. The idea of seeing the **Kumaikon’s** Syk out in the open was surprisingly tempting. It wasn’t for the reason Spectrum seemed to think, but if they all got what they wanted, maybe he didn’t have to trust them to work with them.

“I have a friend…a _former_ dealer,” he began nonchalantly, “who’s usually tuned into the channels. He’s got a few loose screws, but he’s got loose lips too. I bet I could get a location on this Smokescreen character from him. That’s what you need, right? A location?”

Strain’s seemingly-permanent frown deepened, but Vestige looked on coolly, refusing to give away any of his musings or motives. At last the brawny mech nodded, straightening and tossing a comm. unit at him.

“Set up a meet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out surprisingly long, but I'm pretty pleased with it! That clerk was right: Prowl definitely needs some sleep. Vestige, meanwhile, needs a smack upside the head for what he's planning!


	16. Chapter 16

Corewheel looked up with a benign smile as the doors to the conference room slid open, accommodating the latest arrivals. There were some faces he hadn’t seen in quite a while—and some he hadn’t seen since his branch of NET was first founded—but he couldn’t help being pleased nonetheless that they had deigned to make the journey.

“Hello, all! Thank you for joining me! Please, do have a seat,” he called, rising from where he sat at the head of the dark iron conference table and gesturing to the five other chrome seats which acted as a counterpoint. He had spent a wealth of credits making this room as stately as its occupants deserved, but Corewheel had to admit that it never looked quite as grand without one of these meetings in session. Corewheel genuinely enjoyed the visit from his fellow branch leaders.

“Is this a state of emergency, Sir Corewheel?” the forerunner on the center-right questioned, his vocals fluctuating between high and low like a broken recording.

“Does it have to be an emergency to keep your attention, Cision?” the Iaconian femme across from him mocked.

“Precision…or _Doctor_ …to you, Madam Cogentia,” the Polyhexian mech deadpanned, pinning his dim, fixed violet stare on her even as Corewheel answered him.

“It may not be an emergency, per se, Precision, but I wanted to give you all an update on the happenings here, explain about a small problem and ask your advice on how to proceed.” Glancing up at the doors as the last member of the council strode in, he hailed, “Ah! I wondered if you would arrive in time; how was the long journey from Culumex?”

“ _Long_ , obviously,” Residue huffed as he took his seat on the far left. “It wouldn’t have been quite so long if my secretary, Slinger, hadn’t started his code malfunctions again.”

“Oh, I’m so very, very sorry to hear that!” the femme next to him sympathized. “Be sure to give him my best wishes, a cube of the finest grade, and ask him if he wants a piece of my art to keep him company. You would do that for me…for him…wouldn’t you?”

Residue offered her no assurance but a wary look and Corewheel’s smile waned just slightly. Inverse was the only branch leader at this table who had the coding herself. They didn’t doubt the Harmonexian artist’s boundless loyalty to the cause, but she hadn’t been the sanest of bots to begin with and it was best to treat her with care and fragility.

“I’m sure he will,” Corewheel suggested into the troubled silence. “Now, down to business: it’s come to my attention that there’s an uprising here in Praxus going by the **Kumaikon** —which is Praxian for ‘arise from the ground’—and they’ve been on my radar for quite some time now, but I’ve always thought of them as fairly small. Recently they’ve been killing and eventually subverting high Praxian authorities, government officials and the like. I wanted to know if you’ve had any encounters with similar entities.”

“I’ve courted many of their kind these past few diuns, though they go by different names in my city. I’ve ensured that none of them return to their ranks and that those who are newly indicted never start.” The mech who spoke first was Maxim, a judge from Protihex renowned for his firm, just ruling in all cases—many of which resulted in a disappearance during the transport to confinement and a fresh slew of Projects for him to take care of at his leisure.

“I haven’t met any,” Cogentia grumbled, “and even if I had, there isn’t much that I could publicly do to intervene, but I’ve seen the potential for it among some of my students at the Science Academy. I’ve done my best to influence them toward secrecy, at least until a more volatile time when there’s more promise for success.”

“My patients show no signs of unrest until I ask them to pay for their surgeries,” Precision stated.

“Does that include your _natural_ patients?” Corewheel pressed gently. He couldn’t help but admire the medic for his ability to hide in plain sight, quietly altering his normal patients a little more with each appointment to prime them for coding the next time they had a surgery at his hand.

“NET _is_ natural,” Precision asserted, his keen sensory net audibly vibrating as he spread his hands. “NET is all.”

“Perhaps not _all_ , at least not in Harmonex,” Inverse admitted, drumming her fingertips lightly on the table as their optics turned to her. “My business is growing more popular now that I’ve followed your advice, Corewheel, and set up my station near the city center.”

Corewheel beamed at this news and she fleetingly returned the smile before adding, “I’ve received more and more commissions for the sculpting of weapons. For a while, they simply wanted them for display, but most recently they’ve requested I make them out of real gunmetal, so they can hold a charge.” Shrugging, she bowed her helm submissively in front of Maxim, who she had long since deemed her authority in the group. “Shall I give the dears what they want or shall I kill them with their sculptures?”

“Whatever you deem to be _just_ , Loyalist,” Maxim growled lowly. Inverse nodded, lowering her helm further until it was almost resting on the table.

“What about you?” Corewheel addressed Residue, who answered with a rare, genuine smile.

“Culumex has no problem with caste,” he announced. “There’s the occasional outlier from Maximus who will cause a ruckus, but more often than not they’re treated as certifiable and directed to Alchemist as quickly and quietly as possible.”

“That’s good news to hear!” Corewheel praised before knitting his fingers together and leaning his arms against the tabletop, letting the pause drag for another klik or two before venturing, “However, I also mentioned that I have some less fortunate news. These **Kumaikon** are becoming…ah, let’s say a _touch_ too big for their housings. Back when they were first starting, I sent a Passive operative I believed I could trust into their fold. Recently I was forced to recall him.”

“ _Forced?_ ” Maxim echoed sharply, turquoise optics sparking with united interest and mistrust. “Excessive force… An unreasonable seizure occurs when a law officer uses excessive force in making a lawful arrest. Whether force is reasonably necessary or excessive is measured by the force a reasonable and prudent officer would use under the circumstances. Did the Passive have an encounter with the law that posed a threat?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Corewheel assured him, clearing his throat tactfully before he continued, “In fact, it was the **Kumaikon** themselves who posed the threat…They killed one of our Projects—moreover, it was a strategic asset, a councilmech.”

A weighty silence followed these words as his fellow council members processed them. Cogentia was the first to break it. “If they’re infringing on NET territory, they ought to be steered in a different direction.”

“But how best to do it? That’s what I’m asking you,” Corewheel prompted, leaning forward hopefully for their suggestions. If anyone could guide him on the best course of action, it would be his friends and fellows. They weren’t the coleaders of NET for nothing; each of them had worked so hard to reach this point and they knew he had done the same. They weren’t going to let this uprising sabotage their shared cause.

“The process is simple,” Precision purred. “They are dispensable. The Exploration Trial is all and takes all precedence. We take them all…make them ours…”

“But should any one of them escape,” Inverse pointed out, “they might rally new allies against us, harm our Projects! No, no, they need _another_ form of judgment! Maxim, my dear Sir, what’s your piece of wisdom?”

“Judgment is a harsh affair,” Maxim claimed impassively. “We kill them all, let their bodies rust under the gaze of the people. We let them see the truth: no one escapes their trial forever. No one escapes _our law_.”

“But aren’t you all forgetting something?” Residue retorted. “We voted. I, for one, enjoy my city exactly how it is, but you all have admitted that civil unrest would work in your branches’ favor. Aren’t the **Kumaikon** and their like exactly what you want? Because of your decision, it would be Corewheel’s job to bring NET’s influence to their ranks. Wouldn’t it?”

Casting Residue a brief glare for throwing him under the airway pod, Corewheel held up his hands, appeasing, as the others glanced at him questioningly. “That it was and that I _did_. My Passive, Wayfair, was one of the **Kums** ’ first lieutenants, but he’s not exactly an inconspicuous mech. It wasn’t often that he was able to give us reports on his progress. Now, though…now you can ask him whatever questions you like.” Prying open the intercom panel, he sent a summons.

The council members twisted around in their seats as Lux stalked into their chamber, Lustre prancing eagerly after him to catch up with his longer legs as he dragged her by the arm. Trailing after them, Wayfair had a hand on the back of the newest addition to the Projects, guiding him forward. Torchlight’s mouth opened in awe as he saw the assembled leaders.

“Oh! Are these the ones who gave me my new coding?” he gasped, breaking away from Wayfair to rush forward and pump the hand of the nearest mech, which happened to be Residue. “It’s such an honor to see you, much less meet you, sir! I’m at your service! How could I not be, after everything you’ve done for me?”

“And I’m quite grateful,” Residue assured him, his expression hinting at thoughts of murder as he pried his hand from Torchlight’s and laid it on his shoulder instead. “You know, you remind me of a Thriller I used to know. Are you a Thriller?”

“I—I’m new here, sir. What’s a Thriller?” Torchlight asked with shining optics.

“Someone happy,” Wayfair deadpanned as he caught up.

“Then I guess I am a Thriller, because I’ve never been happier!” Torchlight decided. “I’d love to meet that other one; maybe we’ll be friends!”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Gears disappeared quite suddenly; I haven’t seen him for vorns, the poor mech, and I can’t help but think I won’t _ever_ see him again,” Residue remarked with false regret. Torchlight paused, looking unsure of what to say in response, and Corewheel took advantage of the silence.

“Wayfair, Torchlight, I called you and your carers here so you could answer some questions about the **Kumaikon** ,” he explained gently.

“Again, I’m at your service!” Torchlight enthused, sweeping a bow at the others and grinning widely. Wayfair nodded wordlessly in agreement and Corewheel got right to business.

“How much potential do you think the **Kumaikon** have for working with us? Do the officers share, work well with others?”

Torchlight considered. “Well, Smokescreen—that’s the cousin of that famous police officer, Prowl—he was a spy who tried to betray us for a very strange mech who didn’t belong anywhere; he wasn’t with us _or_ the police! Margin, our leader’s sweetspark, wasn’t kind to either of us at all and she never wanted to share any duties, rations, or assignments, but I’ve already forgiven both of them for that! I’m sure both of them had their reasons; maybe they just weren’t happy with their jobs. With some time and some changes like I’ve had, I think that they would _love_ to help us!”

“Railway follows no orders but his own and expects others to do the same,” Wayfair announced. “He shares only what he can spare and now that he and Margin are the only officers currently in play, he’s likely thankful that he has to share less.”

“So if NET were hoping to be involved in his life right now, he might not accept it?” Corewheel clarified, doors twitching. Wayfair nodded curtly and Torchlight followed his example with vigor, his smile and optics widening eagerly.

“That’s unfortunate,” Maxim remarked grimly. “If we needed to meet with them anyway, discuss the rules of engagement with the populace, _our_ populace…where would we find them?”

“ _Your_ populace?” Torchlight echoed.

“NET is all; it encompasses all, including the populace,” Precision proclaimed yet again, rising from his chair and sliding a data pad out of his subspace and across the table to them. “It will react to your touch. A holo-map, if you please.”

With Lustre’s help, Torchlight began mapping out the landscape as Lux and Wayfair pinpointed exact coordinates. Once it was finished, they projected it over the table. Corewheel watched with pride as each council member studied it intently; he could see in their optics what the eventual decision would be, and it was unanimous. Cogentia was the one to voice it first.

“If the **Kumaikon** have no interest in working with us,” she mused, “they’re working against us.”

“We judge them accordingly,” Maxim concurred.

“And make sure that no one escapes,” Inverse reminded them. “No more loyal NET patients are going to be hurt on our watch.”

“Civil unrest isn’t worth encroachment on us,” Residue huffed. “Which base is yours, Torchlight?” The Thriller beamed as he pointed out the coordinates and Residue inclined his helm courteously. “Thank you. While we’re all still in the city, we have a unique opportunity. I haven’t had the privilege of being in the field for a while…Shall we strike on a united front?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Corewheel announced gleefully amidst murmurs of agreement from the others. “Let’s arm ourselves and reconvene tomorrow to strategize.” As the six of them began making their way out, Corewheel brushed a hand against Cogentia’s arm, slowing her enough that he could lower his voice. “Oh, I meant to ask you…what’s the status of our little side project? Have any of you caught up with that rogue entity?”

“No one can touch him,” Cogentia complained. “He’s got too many assets in play; all of them are a pain in the diodes!”

“Alright, alright, no pressure,” Corewheel soothed. “Just back off for a while if you're frustrated…Maintain Soundwave as a mech of interest and leave it at that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...What? Could any of you picture NET _not_ having Soundwave on their radar? He can read people's minds! Of course they want him, and they want him real bad! XD


	17. Chapter 17

Progressor had learned a long time ago that in the **Kumaikon** , a mech who kept his helm down was one who survived long enough to receive a promotion. It hadn’t been easy, but now he was a second lieutenant, high enough to see everything sliding downhill. If Railway had caught on to Smokescreen’s treachery some time sooner, all of this might have been prevented.

Progressor was a middle-class mech in every sense, the kind of mech who seemed natural, easy to ignore. He was the middle ground between the two fighting classes and ever since Smokescreen had been revealed as a double agent, the runners had become restless and uneasy.

Everyone had sincerely believed that Smokescreen wanted nothing to do with his cousins and their lifestyle of kneeling to the higher castes, doing the bidding of their laws. The gambler had been a trusted officer and he had treated all of them kindly, unlike some others they could name. Now that it had been revealed they couldn’t trust him of all people, something in them had crumbled and they had started acting out, becoming messy, reckless, and savage. Even the other officers were starting to come apart at their seams and Progressor, in his strategic place, observed it all.

Margin’s temper, hot enough already, had only grown hotter as the interrogation sessions with Smokescreen went on and on and on with no results. She’d taken to punching the first bot who asked how it had gone or if she was alright, no matter who they were. Railway was the only one somewhat spared her wrath and if anyone was caught complaining about that, they were either punched a second time or shot—depending on how ill-tempered the femme was feeling at that particular moment.

Wayfair and Torchlight were most often seen together, but now neither of them were seen at all. Where they had gone, no one knew—not even Railway, it seemed. He had captured the nearest runner he could and shaken him down, demanding the location of his two errant lieutenants. When the runner could give no answer but a few useless stammered syllables, Railway seemed to seriously consider shooting him, but had opted to let him go with a muttered threat no one but the runner could hear. Whatever it was, Progressor had noticed how the runner trembled in the face of it and couldn’t help feeling a touch of sympathy for him. Lately _all_ of the runners were being lumped together in the accusations of insubordination.

Railway himself hadn’t been exercising the greatest control either. Not only was he scheduling executions, strategizing, and giving orders, he was also trying to round up all of the stray runners, the ones who had been particularly sloppy lately, and punish them summarily. The number of them was growing with each passing orn and there was only so much that Railway could do, so many places he could be at any given time. It was with this thought that Progressor had another: it was only a _matter_ of time.

He had integrated into a different **Kumaikon** than the one currently causing havoc; the **Kumaikon** he had joined had been structured. He had followed orders obediently, as had the other runners, and everything was neat, precise, well-played. It wasn’t an entirely violent show unless it had to be to make a point and while Progressor had nothing against violence, there had to be _balance_. This wasn’t making any point now; it was nothing but mindless murders.

They would soon be caught and Progressor intended not to be there when that happened.

 _Best get it over with now,_ he mused grimly as he stared up at the proud two-story police station. Venting deeply, he steeled himself for a klik or two before moving inside. As soon as he mentioned speaking to Lieutenant Prowl about a current case, the clerk directed him toward one of the back offices. Leaning lightly against the counter, Progressor shook his helm.

“I think you misunderstand,” he replied with a rueful smile. “I’m with the **Kumaikon** —you know, the organization who just blew up a section of the Assembly building—and I’m turning myself in.”

That earned him a pair of stasis cuffs and a swift trip to the nearest interrogation room. It was as drab and uncomfortable as Progressor had expected, so there wasn’t much to see, but he couldn’t help but ponder the fate of Blindlight, the runner who had handed Councilmech Potshot a bomb. He had never returned from giving his witness statement, so it was easy enough to discern what had happened. Was this the room where Blindlight had been sentenced to his fate? Progressor hoped to have a better option available to him.

When the door opened to accommodate Prowl, the first thing Progressor noticed was how haggard the policemech seemed and he couldn’t help feeling a small twinge of satisfaction for that. None of the **Kumaikon** members were overly fond of this mech, so any successful attempt to cause him trouble was something to be pleased about.

“The clerk didn’t catch your name,” Prowl remarked in a greeting growl as he sat across from him. Progressor nodded concurringly.

“I know. I’m Sir Progressor of Praxus and I told her I would only speak with you about this. I figured you would be the Chop Shop assigned to our case— _my_ case—and sure enough…” he spread his hands out illustratively. “…here you are.”

“Sure enough,” Prowl echoed flatly. Progressor offered him a half-smile and dropped his hands to the table.

“I knew they probably wouldn’t trust anyone else with the case; you’re clearly the one who’s most competent in matters like these. I’ve heard that you made over twenty good arrests last diun—”

“Don’t waste my time with flattery. I want to know why you’re here and what you have to gain by turning yourself in.”

The **Kumaikon** lieutenant’s smile almost dropped for a klik but recovered just as quickly. “You’re down to business; I like that. Very well, this is what I have to gain: I want to make a deal with you.”

“Ohh, a _deal?_ ” Prowl mocked, optics darkening as he offered a twisted grin in return. “I should’ve known. Unfortunately, that’s out of the question on account of the fact that you’re a lowlife terrorist and murderer.”

“Ah-ah! I haven’t taken part in any assassinations and I wasn’t involved in the bombing of the Council guards either,” Progressor corrected. “No, no. When I joined the **Kumaikon** , we were just getting started. At the very most, I’m an accessory.”

“Then you’ll be charged as such,” Prowl hissed, lunging to his feet and moving back toward the door. “I’m so very sorry to inform you that you have nothing to bargain with and even if you did, I have no intention of letting you see sunlight again—any of you. Sit here and contemplate that while I work toward the goal of giving you company.”

“That’s what I’m here to offer you,” Progressor retorted confidently. “I can give you Smokescreen.” Prowl stopped up short but didn’t turn and Progressor rose from his own seat, talking seductively the entire time.

“Your cousin…right? Your only cousin, your only _family_ aside from your brother. We all know Smokescreen’s a traitor, one who’s working for you, even though Railway and Margin haven’t gotten him to admit it. However, if you and I can work out an arrangement, all of his pain can come to an end. You’d be able to swoop in and save him, wouldn’t you? I can provide you with a map to the compound. I might even narrow it down and tell which room he’s in.”

At that Prowl rounded on him, grabbing him by the arms and squeezing with a tight grip that Progressor hadn’t expected. He squirmed, wincing, and Prowl’s fingers only tightened.

“I can find ways to hurt you without leaving a dent,” the policemech snarled, fingertips digging into the seams of Progressor’s arms until his nervecircuits buzzed. “No one would know and I’d make sure you wouldn’t be able to tell. All you’re going to be telling anyone is Smokescreen’s location. I want coordinates now…and, no matter how long we have to stay in here together, you _will_ give them.”

—

Bluestreak perked up as Prowl emerged from the interrogation room. “Well? Any luck?” he questioned hopefully, but aside from a ripple of reassurance through their bond, Prowl dodged both him and his question and instead approached the office of Chief Nightscope. Bluestreak was sorely tempted to follow, but for all he knew, he might not want to hear what Prowl would be discussing with him. Before he could decide, the door slid closed. It would be too conspicuous for Bluestreak to approach it for eavesdropping, so he stayed where he was while keeping one optic on Nightscope’s door.

“Sir, sign here please,” a nearby officer instructed, offering him a data pad and a stylus. Bluestreak nodded distractedly, signing his witness statement. Afterward, he took a nanoklik to read it through one last time, pursing his lips tightly.

 _What a way to start my career as a guard,_ he mused, shivering a little. He hadn’t expected a weapon to be pointed at him so soon, much less by a mech who tried to recruit him at that gunpoint. _The **Kumaikon** really are glitched in their databanks_. Not for the first or last time, he thought of Smokescreen, of what he had to endure, what he pretended to be while he was undercover. It was probably a trivial pain when compared to what he might be going through right now.

“Sir? I need to take that statement so I can file it,” the officer recaptured his attention, speaking gently. Nodding vigorously, Bluestreak returned the pad to her and then leaned back in his chair, rubbing a small buffer over his new dents and scratches, left by the explosion, and trying vainly to rub these worrying thoughts out of his mind.

 _Smokes would never back down from them; he’d never give up. He’s just as stubborn as Prowl when he wants to be_. This notion made him chuckle wryly, but it was rather short-lived. This entire situation reminded him of the many times in their youth that Prowl and Smokescreen would concoct the most dramatic strategies for revenge on anyone that looked down on Bluestreak.

While he appreciated the care, Bluestreak had also come to the conclusion that when his brother wasn’t up to the task, he was more than willing to fill his place. Prowl would run himself into the ground in his determination to find justice—much like Smokescreen would—before ever considering the notion of giving up. The fact that Prowl had already run himself as far as he could and still hadn’t found anything was almost as worrying as the prospect of Smokescreen getting hurt.

 _If Prowl can’t find anything, how could I?_ Bluestreak wondered fleetingly. Before he could ponder the answer, Prowl reemerged from the chief’s office and the change in his demeanor caught Bluestreak’s attention instantly: he stood straighter and strode with purpose, optics bright, doorwings flared decisively.

“Prowl!” Bluestreak called, rising to intercept his twin, pinging curiosity to him. Automatically Prowl held up a hand for him to pause as he addressed a few of the officers at their desks.

 “Ordinance, Quadric, you’re coming with me,” he barked, tossing a data pad at them. “Inform your partners, arm yourselves, and set up defense squads at the points on that holo-map; we’ve just received a break in the **Kumaikon** case.”

“You have?!” Bluestreak gasped, nudging the bond more insistently until Prowl finally fluttered his doorwings just a little and spun around to hug him.

“We have coordinates,” his brother whispered, hope reflecting in his voice for the first time this diun. “We have them, Bluestreak. We’ll find _him!_ It’s finally time; we’re taking them down once and for all!”

Bluestreak returned the hug with force, exclaiming, “Then I’m going too!” He could tangibly feel Prowl’s enthusiasm flatten Bluestreak pulled away to interrupt the warning before it had an opportunity to happen, pleading, “C’mon, Prowl, I can help! Don’t worry! I know the drill; I’ll stay back and all of that but think about it this way: I _do_ have combat training and I might be able to identify some of the infiltrators from the Council building. I want to see Smokescreen; I need to make sure he’s okay just as much as you do!”

“Bluestreak, you just suffered a traumatic explosion—”

“And I want to see the fraggers who put them up to it,” Bluestreak declared. “So unless you want to arrest me, I’m following you!” At Prowl’s defeated sigh, Bluestreak huffed a laugh. “I always do, you know.”

“Yes, I know. Very well. There’s some hard light armor you’ll need to put on,” Prowl instructed, guiding him down the hall to the armory. “Let’s bring Smokescreen home.”


	18. Chapter 18

“Well? What information did your former dealer give you?” Strain demanded as Vestige strolled back into their hideout. The larger mech’s jaw twisted skeptically at him as he leaned against the wall by the door.

“It took a while for him to open up,” he remarked offhandedly, keenly bright optics roaming the room, never fully making contact with either of the tense, expectant mechs. “It’s been a while since I contacted him, if you remember; we needed to talk a little business before he even thought of trusting me again! Goes to show what kind of friends I have, right?”

“I’m more concerned with _my_ friend and finding out his location,” Strain growled through clenched teeth, resisting the urge to cross the room and shake the information out of him. Vestige’s optics finally landing on him and his helm tilted back, as though he was just realizing Strain was there.

“But,” he stressed, enunciating clearly, “ _eventually_ I got what I needed…and what you needed too! He wouldn't give me any evidence, but don't worry; I thought fast and I memorized it.” With that he pushed himself off the wall, striding quickly across the room toward the table Strain and Spectrum had cleared for a holo-map. As Vestige passed, Spectrum promptly grimaced and took a step back, and Strain followed his example, blinking against the crisp, stinging scent of chemicals. As Vestige began mapping out coordinates, Strain pinned a knowing glower at his back, resentment welling up in him.

It seemed that the homeless Outcrosser’s _former_ dealer was back in business. That added stress was _exactly_ what Strain needed right now.

In some ways, he couldn’t fault the mech for backsliding, but in others he simply didn’t care. He only wanted to take the next step, one step closer to saving his friend. There was another part of him, however, that recalled that Incinerator never would have tolerated that kind of rebellion from a member of his team. He never had.

Strain remembered all too clearly when Highstake had made the mistake of trying Steam; Incinerator had recognized the signs in under thirty kliks and his fury at his **trilitare’s** foolishness had been…potent, to say the least, enough so that Highstake had never laid optics on that kind of circuit booster again for fear of what their leader might do. Why should Strain be forced to tolerate that kind of behavior?

 _I need Vestige. As much as I hate it, I_ need _him. If we’re to work together, I need to accept his vices, at least for now—only for now,_ he reminded himself.

The Syk would still have its few benefits. Vestige’s speed was clearly enhanced, as was his memory and productivity. Later it would devolve into instability and data corruptions, but at the moment it served them. Keeping these thoughts at the forefront of his mind, Strain released what was meant to be a calming ex-vent and methodically folding his arms so Vestige wasn’t within his immediate reach. The taller mech didn’t notice, hurriedly feeding data into their outdated computer. Eventually Spectrum took compassion on his jittery fingers, nudging him aside and suggesting that he orate the coordinates instead while Spectrum typed.

Once the data was finally onscreen, Strain pushed between his two partners and scanned it intently.

“That’s where your old friend is,” Vestige announced with no small amount of triumph in his voice, jabbing a finger through the compound closest to the outskirts. Strain felt a twinge of dismay and unease; his carrier’s home was uncomfortably close to the settlement. How had he never noticed it?

 _I’ve only just come away from a long assignment. Am I already becoming untidy?_ something in the back of his mind lamented, but he barely paid attention to it.

“Did your source…say anything about his wellbeing?” he questioned, his clipped tones revealing none of the desperate prayers coursing through his mind. “Is he still alive?”

Vestige paused. “Yeah, sure, he’s alive. He’s not doing so well, but he’s still alive.”

“Would you care to _expand_ on that?”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly ask outright or he would figure out what I wanted and double-cross me!” Vestige pointed out.

“Oh, because Smokescreen’s wellbeing is clearly your only goal in this,” Strain mocked before shaking his helm and gesturing sharply to the computer screen. “Do you really believe your source can be trusted? Given that his mental state may be worse than yours, I’m not sure I’m willing to take that, or _any_ of this information, at face value.”

“Hey! I did the job I was meant to, didn’t I?” Vestige protested indignantly, venting harshly and wiping his hand over his optics. “This is what he gave me; it’s better than what you had before, isn’t it? You should just be grateful and take what you can get!”

“…That it is,” Strain allowed. “And because I don’t believe another more reliable source will be available for the foreseeable future, I _will_ take what I can and use it.” With that he pivoted and strode for the door.

“S-Strain, where are you going?” Spectrum called.

“Where do you _think_ , Spectrum? I’m going to the compound and extracting Smokescreen! You’re welcome to join me, but Smokescreen has been in the **Kumaikon’s** _loving care_ for a diun and I don’t intend to wait any longer!”

“Who is he to you? Your Amica?” Vestige questioned curiously before his processors caught up with the rest of Strain’s words and his annoyance with the Culumexian was forgotten. “Oh! Finally, a fight I’m happy to pick! It's about time; I’m feeling good and ready for this.”

“Then come with me,” Strain snapped, jerking his helm in a nod that brought Vestige to his side.

“Wait!” Spectrum protested, his exasperation clear as he scrambled to maneuver between them and the door. “Even with your bravado, Vestige, we’re _not_ ready! What about your creed, Strain? What about proper preparation? There’s only three of us and we don’t have the weapons we need for an assault on the **Kumaikon**! They’re _terrorists_ ; they’re going to be well-armed.”

“Move out of my way, Spectrum…” Strain growled, but the younger mech cut him off, clutching his shoulders firmly and earnestly.

“Listen to me for just one minute, would you? You asked for my help and I’m giving it: I’m giving you my advice. You channeled the holovids into the newsfeed; we saw what happened at the Assembly building! If we want to stand up to that, you can’t run off prematurely or you’ll get yourself killed. You know that! So, unless you want me to be the last mech to see you alive, we need something more. You’ve waited this long, haven’t you? Just a little longer, please…I don’t want to see _either_ of you—or Smokescreen—hurt.”

“Heh. Specs here can blink his pretty visor at them, but I don’t think they’ll go for an innocent routine,” Vestige remarked with a grin.

“I wish I could ignore that remark,” Spectrum sighed. “But he does have a point. Right now, all we have are Vestige’s mnemosurgeon blades, my visor, and your extending arms—which are impressive, by the way, but they’re not enough to defend us. We need…blasters, vibroblades…That sort of thing.”

“Do you even know how to use one?” Strain deadpanned.

Smiling ruefully, Spectrum offered him a half-shrug. “Point and shoot. I’m on the run, Strain; I didn’t get this far by ‘blinking my pretty visor.’ I’ve done a little experimenting with ways to defend myself—and I prefer vibroblades, by the way.”

“As you should!” Vestige approved. “They’re much handier in a fight.” Chuckling, he mimed a few swings of his hands, narrowly missing Spectrum’s face as the younger mech dodged back, grumbling at him.

“So we need a stock of weapons,” Strain groused, frustrated. “I think I know a bot who may be able to equip us. Let’s go to the surface.”

Spectrum gave him a wary look as he slid out of their way toward Strain’s other side. “You’re not going to bolt as soon as we get above ground, are you?”

“I’m not as erratic as you seem to believe,” Strain muttered.

“And I trust you more than _you_ seem to believe. I’m just trying to look out for you,” Spectrum retorted promptly, earning a light scoff that covered Strain’s unease. Smokescreen had spoken those same words when Strain first became involved in this catastrophe.

“Then I hope you’ll continue to trust me when we reach our destination.”

True to Strain’s expectations, Spectrum and Vestige were less than impressed when he came to a stop in front of Clutch’s Rush. Vestige very nearly started laughing as Spectrum offered Strain a weary, tentative sideways glance and Strain shrugged mildly before moving toward the entryway.

“Wait, you’re not serious, are you?” Vestige called after him, receiving no answer but the trill of the door as Strain disappeared. Stifling a groan, Spectrum followed and Vestige rolled his optics, wandering in after them. “Ugh, I just know the smells are going to give me a helm-ache, but if this is what lets me _finally_ finish what I’m here for…”

The sweet shop was fairly hectic this afternoon, forcing Strain to wade through the throng of excitable, buzzing sparklings. He ended up getting smacked around the legs with more than a few pairs of small, clunky doorwings, but eventually he reached the counter where Overclutch had his back to the bustle, sorting various jars on the shelves. As he turned, his optics lit up, scanning Strain’s demeanor and then leaning across the counter.

“Well, well, hello there. I trust I have something you need,” he greeted, his smile not quite reaching his optics as they searched beyond Strain and found his two companions, still catching up. “And who are your friends?”

“The ones we discussed,” Strain assured him in a low voice, almost unheard beneath the din. “I took your advice. Now I was wondering if you had some other essentials that you wouldn’t mind parting with…”

“Ah. You want a reward,” Overclutch finished, nodding. “I think I have just what you need; let me take you to the backroom and see if anything there interests you. I’ll be right back, I promise!” he called to the various sparklings, some of whom whined, but he leaned over the counter and patted their helms lightly before striding away toward the stairs leading up to his suite. Surprised, Strain followed, Vestige and Spectrum close on his heelstruts.

“Strain, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Spectrum murmured, brushing a hand lightly over Strain’s arm which went ignored. “Unless you’re hoping to stock up on fuel…”

“Trust me,” Strain ordered shortly. It was an order tailored to Spectrum specifically and he seemed to realize it, prompting pursing his lips against any other objections. Strain expected Vestige to take Spectrum’s place in a spark-beat, but the other mech was currently preoccupied studying the holopics lining the walls on either side of the staircase. At one point, he halted entirely, his foot hovering over the next step.

“What is it?” Spectrum questioned, half-turning toward him.

“I…recognize these people,” Vestige muttered, gesturing hurriedly at the five mechs pictured. “I’ve seen ’em before.”

“That was my Praxian Martial unit,” Overclutch called from the top of the stairs. “We were tasked with finding and protecting some _unusual_ civilians from an organization that wanted to indict them.” As Vestige stared up at him, he offered a perceptive half-smile, tinged with some sadness. “I also seem to remember a stubborn young tourist who thought he was better off on his own. One minute, I had him tucked behind me, the next he had bolted. I’ve always wondered how that story ended for him.”

Vestige’s optics dilated as he glanced back toward the holopic and then downward, fidgeting. “I have too,” he admitted blatantly. “I don’t think it’s ended yet.”

“Then I hope it’ll be a good one.” With this remark, Overclutch beckoned them to join him as he waved through a holographic wall to reveal a case of weapons. Spectrum’s jaw fell and Strain perked up, shifting closer. “You two, take your pick,” the old warrior suggested, nudging Strain aside and leaning close to his audial. “But you should hurry. I’ve gotten some rumors that a certain policemech has made a breakthrough in the case and…well, you know how that draws the public’s attention.”

“Of course,” Strain concurred lowly, gratefully, before squeezing the taller mech’s arm and skirting past him to find a weapon that suited his hands.


	19. Chapter 19

“Farsight,” Railway began, repeating almost word for word the conversation he had been treated to with several other runners lately, “I’ve been examining your handiwork lately. I’ve done my best to keep my study discreet…Do you know why?”

Farsight’s doorwings fell, flattening against his back uncertainly as Railway guided him toward the Outskirts of the compound. “I c-can’t say that I do,” he stammered, optics flickering around to the execution posts. Railway forced a smile at him as he moved his hand from the runner’s back to his shoulder, turning him so they could face each other.

“Well, let me enlighten you. You’re a lower-caste mech, aren’t you?” Upon receiving Farsight’s tentative nod, he returned it. “Yes, well, I’ve noticed a trend emerging among some of the runners—low-caste bots so very much like you—and it seems to me as though you’re getting a little bit…shall we say _overenthusiastic_? While I appreciate your eagerness, your passion for what we’re doing, I seem to remember giving explicit instructions for how my runners are to execute their missions.”

“Sir…” Farsight mewled fearfully as Railway’s grip on him tightened, forcing his knees to buckle.

“I think of some of you as my students. I do my best to teach you what you need, but beyond that, I trust you to do what is best with what you learn. Farsight, you haven’t. I would let you off with a warning, but right now, unfortunately for you, there are some risks I can’t take,” Railway continued. “For all I know, you could be getting sloppy because you’re having second thoughts! Second thoughts are something I can’t forgive.”

“Sir, I’m loyal, I swear I am!” Farsight exclaimed, cowering and shielding his helm as Railway pulled his blaster and centered it between his optics.

“Maybe,” Railway allowed, tilting his helm thoughtfully. “But I’m at peace with never finding out.” With these words, he lowered his blaster and shot the shaking runner through the throat, bowling him over, and then through his exposed chest, impatiently shifting his weight back and forth as he waited for Farsight’s colors to fade. Once they had, he snarled under his vents, “ **Freening** glitches,” and kicked the corpse’s limp leg hard enough to dent before stalking back toward the inner compound.

He had needed to execute no fewer than seven runners since Windtrip’s death. Hadn’t he made his orders clear? Hadn’t he trained them to follow those orders to the micron? He had only ever indicted bots he trusted! What was it about that tricursed councilmech that had driven them to such disarray?

Whatever the cause, he was _not_ at peace with it, despite what he told himself or others. He wanted clean, tactful, efficient results, not this mess! He could sense his runners’ fear now whenever he laid optics on them and as satisfying as that could be, killing their fellows didn’t help him or their cause.

Even worse, he had more and more responsibility piled on him since Torchlight and Wayfair’s disappearance. Margin too had only become tetchier as he had under the strain.

“Those two ground crawlers were _always_ undependable!” she barked, slamming her hands against the table as they pored over data pads for potential promotions. “They were never loyal to the cause; they only cared about each other! We should’ve known they would double-cross us!”

While Railway could see where she was coming from, what infuriated him the most about the entire situation was that Smokescreen was no doubt enjoying every minute of it.

After the first three quintuns, it had become all too clear that Smokescreen wasn’t going to be broken. _To think I admired him for his resilience,_ Railway had fumed. _To think I promoted him for it!_ His unbreaking spirit wasn’t going to stop them from breaking any piece of plating they could reach. Margin and her team of experts from another compound had worked for joors on end, to the point where Smokescreen needed to be revived with electric pulses instead of circuit speeders. There were times when he was so incredibly still and his spark pulse so faint that Railway had been ready to dispose of his body, but Margin had held him back long enough for the traitor to rise again.

 _Not this time_. Margin was on the other side of the camp, overseeing the stockpiling of the finished weapons. Though the mech who had bombed the Assembly had died promptly afterward, Railway had approved of his containment and was already planning another attack on one of the other levels. He glanced at the bombs still left to be packed as he passed through the weapons room toward the secure room beyond.

Smokescreen stirred as the door slid open, blinking cracked optics in a dented, bloodied face. Railway met his gaze steadily as he approached. “To think it all started with _you_ ,” he muttered, looking him up and down derisively. “You and your freak, conspiring against me. That seems to be a running trend—Wayfair is gone, Torchlight with him. I suspect you already know that…Even here, nothing gets past you.” Smokescreen blinked again, offering him no answer aside from a thick wheeze, and Railway added, “What strikes me about that, however, is the longer they’re gone, the more I realize that they were never worth keeping. And seeing as your loyalty lies elsewhere, neither are you.”

He crossed the room in mere kliks, clamping a hand around Smokescreen’s throat and jerking him forward against his cuffs, wringing a pained cough out of him as he hissed, “I promised your cousin that he was going to receive your optics in a can, but I’ve heard that some bots can survive that, so I think that instead, I’m going to send him your _doorwings_. I have a feeling you’ll give up on surviving once you’re crippled.”

Just as Smokescreen started trembling, the doors slid open, revealing a gasping Margin who trembled just as violently. As far back as he could recall, Railway had never seen her quake in the face of anything, but as soon as he saw the smoking blaster in her hand, he heaved Smokescreen away and spat, “Now what?!”

“I just came from the other side of the compound. We’re—we’re under attack!” Shaking herself down to regain her bearings, Margin glanced over her shoulder toward the outer room before adding, “It’s only six slaggin’ bots, but I think—Frag, Railway, I think it might be NET!”

“ _What?!_ ” Openly gaping, Railway glanced between her and Smokescreen, fury billowing in his chest as he gazed past the streaks of energon and made out a delighted sneer on the traitor’s face. Roaring wordlessly, he punched him, hard enough that his entire upper frame reeled back, and commanded, “Clear us a path, Margin. I’m dealing with this glitch and then I’ll join you. If it _is_ them, we focus on getting out alive!”

Margin nodded jerkily, spinning away and sprinting down the hall, and Railway stopped the door before it could close, announcing in a growl, “Now I’m in a fraggin’ hurry, but my blaster’s too good for you, glitch. I’m going to use something _special_ to end you!”

—

“Watch yourself, Specs!”

As soon as the words registered, Spectrum dropped, narrowly dodging a swipe of Vestige’s vibroblades across the approaching enemy’s throat. Flinching away from the energon spray as the body dropped, Spectrum tore his optics away from it in a nanoklik, hissing through his teeth as he watched Vestige lunge toward another victim, exclaiming about how much fun he was having.

“Speak for yourself,” Spectrum panted, unheard, flipping his visor to infrared and then yelping as he dodged a grab from another mech and tackled him around the middle. The pair sailed several feet before a landing that shocked the air out of both of them. Spectrum dragged himself to his feet as soon as he could, scrambling away and scanning the various buildings.

The terrorists were pouring out onto the field to meet them, brandishing just as many weapons as Spectrum had feared. Adrenaline was letting him see farther than his usual range, but he still hadn’t found their target.

 _There’s no heat, no spark signature, nothing! Frag!_ Wildly swinging his own blade, he sent rents of light through the air as he ran toward Strain, backpedaling just enough to avoid his teammate’s arms as they lashed out, tearing through the opposition.

“I can’t find him, Strain; I’ve got nothing!” he hollered. Spitting curses as blaster fire sprayed through the air, Strain hauled Spectrum back the way he had come, snagging Vestige with his free hand and wrenching him away from his current opponent.

“Ah! What’re you doing?” Vestige snarled, tearing futilely at Strain’s grip.

“We need to regroup!” Slamming his two teammates down behind an upended pile of cargo containers, Strain tore his photon rifle out of subspace, sending several shots over their cover. “Use a full spectrum; we need to find him and get the frag out of here!”

It took Spectrum a few kliks to realize Strain was talking to him; as soon as he was shielded from the **Kumaikon** weapons, the fear of what they were facing had started to catch up with him; he seized up, gasping desperately, clinging to his weapon, until Strain lashed out, nearly knocking him over as he shook him. “Snap out of it, Spectrum! Keep scanning!”

“I’ll give you some cover,” Vestige declared, gripping his arm and dragging him back into the open. Ducking behind the larger mech as much as he could, Spectrum spun desperately in circles, overwhelmed by the masses streaming past him, until he spotted a femme as she burst out of a long, angular building. No sooner had he noticed her did a well-aimed blaster shot go through her knee, dropping her and sending her own blaster flying.

“Is that Prowl?!” Spectrum gasped, elbowing Vestige to get his attention as the distinctive lieutenant pounced on the femme he had just disabled. Several other policemechs scattered across the area, putting down whoever was in reach.

“Where is Railway?” Prowl spat as soon as he had secured her, giving her a vicious shake when she didn’t answer. “ _Where is he?!_ ”

“Get fragged,” the femme hissed back, her voice taut with pain and fury.

“Prowl, we don’t have time for an interrogation!” Strain warned as he approached, shoving past Spectrum and Vestige, who stared at him in disbelief.

“Strain, you knew he would be here?!” Vestige hissed vehemently. The Culumexian ignored him, hovering over the policemech and his prisoner.

“Margin knows where Railway is and Railway will know where _Smokescreen_ is,” Prowl growled, never taking his optics away from the femme, who glared defiantly back. Tensing, Spectrum spun in another circle, just now realizing that they hadn’t been attacked again. To his bewilderment, most of the soldiers were heading toward the opposite side of the compound, far beyond them.

“If she knows where the boss is, why don’t you let me _make_ her talk?” Vestige urged, shifting forward and then stopping short, his helm jerking up, vents hitching. “Do you hear what I hear?”

As he turned his attention back to them, Spectrum perked up, visor flashing crimson. “I _see_ it!” he exclaimed urgently, taking off. Vestige wasn’t far behind as he dashed past the others toward the entrance Margin had come from. Inside was a tunnel made up of several yards; Strain caught up in a matter of kliks and Spectrum barely glanced at him, optics fixed straight ahead. “There’s some kind of thermal-proof room back there!” he explained hurriedly. “But once the door opened—I thought I read two life signs!”

“I can smell ’em,” Vestige confirmed harshly. “There’s a lot of spilled energon, and something else in there is _trilling_.”

At these words, Strain maneuvered between them, pulling ahead and rushing past the tables in the first room toward the closed doors at the back. No sooner had he smashed through them did he collide with the first mech he saw, crashing him into the wall and then to the floor in a heap.

“Smokescreen?” Spectrum asked in a word at the same time Vestige burst out, “Bomb!”

Strain looked up at that, just distracted enough that Railway was able to thrash away, slamming an elbow into his face with a weighty crack. Static sparked in Strain’s vision as he hit the wall, disorienting him, and Railway kicked him as he dove for the doors, but Vestige was quick to intercept, catching him by the doorwing. As he yanked Railway back, his free hand came up, vibroblades shredding away the plating on the **Kumaikon** leader’s right arm and eating the top layer of wiring underneath.

Railway barely had time to register the agony, much less scream, before Strain flew upright and onto his back, coiling his arms around his chest and squeezing until his plating creaked and he finally cried out, falling limp.

“Specs, what do I cut to disarm this?” Flinging energon from his fingers, Vestige rushed to assist Spectrum, whose lenses whitened to make use of x-rays as he scanned the device Railway had clamped to Smokescreen’s chest.

“There are too many false leads!” Spectrum lamented. “I can’t even see the power source beneath all of this wiring—”

“It’s the gray lead,” Smokescreen rasped, coughing raggedly before nodding his chin at the bomb. “Just behind the—the gold one and the blue…”

Just as Vestige pried the disabled bomb away, Prowl and Bluestreak arrived on the scene, rushing to disable the cuffs suspending their cousin in midair. Smokescreen folded in on himself as soon as he was able, Prowl opening his arms and taking the brunt of his weight before he hit the floor.

“Smokescreen, are you—are you okay? You’re safe now,” Bluestreak whispered, clutching at his kin with as much restraint as he could muster as Prowl lowered him down, supporting his helm and shoulders.

“Glad to hear it,” Smokescreen replied weakly, broken doorwings twitching in something akin to a wave before he passed out.

“Bluestreak, can you carry him?” Prowl requested, the relief in his voice taking second place to the near-tangible anger as he noticed Railway, still locked helplessly in Strain’s arms. “I have someone _else_ to escort outside.”

Spectrum ex-vented deeply as he followed them back down the hall, glancing at his two companions. Vestige seemed all too eager to leave the building, occasionally trying to skirt past Prowl so he could be the first one outside—why, Spectrum didn’t know, but he suspected it had something to do with rejoining the fight for however long it lasted. Strain, however, was lagging behind, his EM field flat and his features grim.

 _Shouldn’t he be happy right now? We found his friend and he’s going to be alright!_ Spectrum pondered, nudging Strain wordlessly and receiving no immediate response. As they emerged back into the evening air, Spectrum moved to do it again, but as soon as he lifted a hand, Strain’s calm, collected façade exploded. From one klik to the next, Railway was ripped out of Prowl’s hands and was on the ground, helpless to defend himself as Strain smashed blow after blow into him, screaming something in a savage tangle of his two home tongues.

Spectrum looked on in utter shock, stretching his lifted hand out further to intervene but unable to find any words. Blinking rapidly, he glanced at Prowl, sure that he was about to do something, but the policemech seemed unfazed by what was happening and made no move to stop it. Vestige, in turn, appeared just as incredulous as Spectrum was, but more than that he seemed _intrigued_ by the side of Strain he hadn’t witnessed before.

Spectrum shook his helm helplessly, stammering, “We need to—He’s—” At last he dropped his hand and braced himself for a klik or two before prodding his teammate forward. “Vestige, _help_ me!”

Strain lived up to his name, thrashing, snarling and flailing as Vestige and Spectrum pried him off and dragged him away from his victim, each hollering over each other in some vain attempt to get through to him. It wasn’t enough. Strain could barely hear them over the rush of air through his audials and the frenzied rage vibrating through him.

 _He needs to die. Railway needs to die! I want him broken down and destroyed, I want him dead! I have him on the ground; I want him to beg. I can_ make _him, I can tear him apart like no one else can. What’s one more death? What’s one more kill? What’s…_

Strain shuddered suddenly, tunnel vision opening just enough that he could think more coherently…enough that he could _remember_. As he did, Spectrum and Vestige dragged him several yards to a healthy distance away from his prey, but it wasn’t needed. Stifling a whimper of dismay, Strain shuttered his optics. Behind them, he saw Windcharger and Incinerator in a furious battle—one of the last times he had seen them before the betrayal.

_“You should never have tried to involve me!” Windcharger shouted, denting one of the walls in Incinerator’s wake. “You should never have forced me to do it!”_

_“Forced you?!” Incinerator echoed scornfully, ducking another sweep of the magnetism which caused the roof to creak. “You volunteered to do it! You simply weren’t ready for the cost!”_

_“I never could be!” Pursuing as Incinerator rocketed across the chamber, Windcharger cried, “I’ll see them at night, I know I will! Don’t you?!”_

_“Oh, yes! Tell me, then: what will be one more?!”_

He was compromised, Strain realized, shaking Spectrum and Vestige off and falling to the ground where he was. Incinerator had affected him, had instilled something into him…something _like_ him.

“What…have I become?” he asked faintly, going unheard as Bluestreak perked up, pointing off into the distance.

“Prowl,” he asked anxiously, “who are they?”

Spectrum followed the Praxian’s pointing finger, scanning each of the approaching figures and then falling back a step, returning his hand to Strain’s shoulder. “Strain,” he began uncertainly, “do you remember that spark scarring I can detect, the kind NET patients have? One of those femmes has it—”

“—and there’s something different about them,” Vestige put in, shifting slightly forward as the wind kicked up. “Only one of ’em’s Praxian.”

With his help, Strain struggled to his feet, peering at each of the strangers in turn and then stiffening as he laid optics on the mech to the far right. “That’s Residue,” he spat. “He’s Culumexian; he’s the NET leader in Alchemist!”

“If you know him…” Bluestreak trailed off, tightening his grip on Smokescreen’s prone form.

Gesturing sharply for his fellow officers to regroup, Prowl announced grimly, “I suggest you three run.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strain's rage attack has been building up for forty years; I'm surprised he managed to restrain himself that long >.>
> 
> Buuuut it's not over yet! Now they need to get outta there however they can! Nobody saw NET coming, really...


	20. Chapter 20

_This is for more than Praxus; this is for all of us, and it’s so much fun!_

If Corewheel spared a nanoklik to consider, he hadn’t felt this excited in quite a long time. Finally he was given a chance to shake off all of the pretenses and fight for what he loved! More than that, he was given the privilege of seeing his fellow NET leaders fight for it too.

Under any other circumstance, Corewheel would be unhappy that he wasn’t taking point, but right now he was smiling so widely that his faceplates hurt. He was too proud of his allies to care. All of them fought differently, each with special modifications to their name; the way they maneuvered in battle, the fluid movements and the razor-sharp reflexes, the final blows—they were _mesmerizing_.

Cogentia, agile and dodgy, spent more time in the air than on the ground, building up her speed in alt. mode and then skidding out on modified, wheel-footed struts, kicking up sparks. Springing lightly up and over the defenses, she rained down a hail of lasers from her gatling gun. The staggered fire put down most of her enemies before she hit the ground again, but the two that remained didn’t last much longer.

Swerving and somersaulting between their legs, the slim femme tangled her struts around theirs, flipping them over and then rolling dexterously upright in mere kliks. She shot one at point-blank range; the other earned a wheel to the face, grinding further into his helm until there was a telling _crack_ and energon stained Cogentia’s treads as she skated on.

Judging by her beaming grin, Inverse was clearly enjoying herself as much as Corewheel was; she fought with manic, glancing blows, generously meant to stun rather than kill so her fellow leaders would have more targets for themselves. The blades in her wrists made good work of it, slicing thin streams of energon from pinpointed joints in wrists, elbows, and knees as several larger opponents attempted to grab at her.

Some wisely broke off and retreated but others doggedly continued their pursuit, bringing her around, her optics and smile widening as she dodged their reckless swings. Carelessly sheathing her own wet blades, she swiveled open two other panels adjacent to make way for triggers. They weren’t guns. “Surprise!” she called gleefully as the audial disruptors powered up and screeched, her attackers’ screams unheard beneath the agonizing din that started cracking their plating with its’ pressure.

Precision preferred a more intimate method than the femmes; he searched for close combat, for any possible means of taking the offense. Thanks to his stocky medical frame, they underestimated his strength, hesitating and overshooting in all the wrong places until he wrested away their weapons and made a grab for them. Once his buzzing sensory net made contact with mesh, he set off a simple, blinding flash from his palms and they fell to what the others called his “death touch”.

True to form, the medic had gone above and beyond for his devotion toward NET, surgically fitting suppression bursts into his sensitive hands. At the moment, frames were dropping in heaps as he sprang, swung and subdued them, dragging them deep into the darkness of a stasis coma. Wayfair and Torchlight, his temporary assistants, followed the trail, speedily transporting the soldiers away as Precision indicated who he wanted to keep for himself.

Maxim, the largest of the group, was a heavy hitter. He fought as gruesomely and methodically as he did everything else, overwhelming his attackers with the sheer force of his swings, smashing them down and leaving smoking husks in his wake. A pair of the smaller frames rushed bravely at him, thinking they could take advantage of his slowness, but he was more agile than they realized. As soon as they were on him, he tensed, silvery cracks shivering over his entire frame until there was nothing left to grasp.

The two who had lunged now phased right through him, stumbling as they tried to catch themselves, and Maxim retook his advantage, looming over them, seizing them by their waists and snapping them in half, sending pieces of their armor flying. Another mech howled in rage or fear, giving himself away as he dove at the judge from behind, who let the broken bodies fall through his bloodied fingers as he turned to break him too.

Residue kept his foes at arms’ length, staying focused and brusque with them, skirting phobically underneath them and ignoring several chances for the offense. As at least three vibroblades swung at him, he backpedaled just out of their reach, his feet barely touching the ground, his bounding, rolling movements so effortless that they seemed choreographed—that is, until one particularly lucky opponent caught him from the side, landing a resounding blow to his face.

The Minibot spun out, nearly falling until he planted one foot down hard for balance, his expression darkening from pain into calculated malice as he spat energon. Deftly retracting his hands and swinging his arms up, Residue blasted a torrent of acid into their faces, bowling them over. The acid found seams in their armor, hissing and spitting as it blew out circuitry. Optics dim, almost vacant, Residue doused the corpses thoroughly until they were melting without his help and then swept toward the second wave, globs of acid scorching patches of the ground as he ran.

Corewheel saw it all in a blur and it was enough to lift his spark to such great heights, he thought he might cry. He couldn’t afford it though, not yet, so he dove into the fray and focused on fighting alongside them, swinging his pronged staff with such force that each dent it left vibrated through him.

For the first time since he’d clawed his way to the top of the ranks, he felt like these deaths meant something to him—oh, they did. They made him feel _alive_. He almost didn’t register the pain as laser fire stung his shoulders and chest; laughing frenziedly, he vaulted toward the gunmechs, stabbing the bladed edge of his staff through one’s chest and then heaving the body at the other, knocking him down long enough for a similar end. Looking up, he scanned the surrounding area for more victims and noticed, to his surprise, that there were a few policemechs scrambling into a defensive position. It occurred to him then that they might recognize him in return, but at the moment he didn’t care about his façade as a businessmech. _This_ was his work and by Cybertron, he was going to have fun doing it, no matter what.

“Hello, all of you!” he hollered eagerly, folding his staff away and lifting the rifle strapped to his back between his doorwings.

“Down!” Prowl commanded, sounding panicked for the first time as he leapt sideways at Bluestreak and Smokescreen, heaving them toward the cover of one of the buildings with a sudden explosion of strength. “Stay low,” he hissed, cutting Bluestreak off as he tried to speak—whether it was to protest or agree, he didn’t know. “Move along the outskirts. There’s a series of platforms leading back to the surface. Get Smokescreen to safety. Strain!” Latching onto the Outcrosser’s arm, he jerked him close, hissing, “You wanted the chance to save Smokescreen? You make sure my family gets out alive. I’m trusting you to do that for me. Don’t make me regret it.”

Strain froze, unnerved by this turn, and Prowl clasped his arm tightly enough to ache before pushing past him back toward the battle. After a few precious kliks, Strain shook off his doubt and nodded, pulled Bluestreak up, barking, “Spectrum, help Bluestreak get Smokescreen on his feet. Vestige, carve out a path. I’ll cover you from behind!”

“Why don’t _you_ go ahead and I’ll cover you?” Vestige argued, yipping faintly when Strain gripped his shoulders and steered him forward.

“Whatever your ulterior motives were, I don’t intend to let you out of my sight. Now _move!_ ”

Grudgingly Vestige obeyed, bolting across the field toward the exit. Strain ushered Bluestreak and Spectrum in his wake, glancing distractedly down at the trail of energon Smokescreen was leaving behind. _He’s lost so much,_ he realized in alarm as he moved to catch up. _Primus, don’t let it be_ too _much. After all this, he can’t—_

A sudden, powerful shockwave forced all of his systems to seize with a pain so fierce he couldn’t even scream. It shot through him and over him in crushing waves. He could taste ashes and energon in the back of his throat and realized that his vents had compressed, strangling him, trapping hot panic into him.

Panic was his last coherent thought before the sensory overload broke him, collapsing him in on himself, clawing at his audials until his backstrut seized again, grinding him to a twitching, quivering halt. His vision swam, colors glitching as his processor tried to register them; all he could see were red pain alerts backlogging all of his systems until a dark form loomed somewhere beyond them.

“Ooh, aren’t _you_ interesting? I like the look of you, little bot!” a femme’s voice proclaimed, muffled underneath the ringing torment and the dully buzzing thud of Strain’s spark in his audials. “I’ll give you to Precision; he’ll like you too!”

She reached a hand toward him, drops of liquid falling from her fingertips and trailing down Strain’s face. He had just enough time to come to terms with the fact that he was going to die and shudder in a vain attempt to flee before a bright and blurry mass collided with the femme from the peripheral, taking her to the ground a few yards away. For a few kliks there was some kind of struggle, preceding a stifled shriek and a thick crunch that cut off the disruptor’s effects.

Prying his vents open, Strain panted hard, steam washing through him as he twisted, trying to pinpoint his savior. Though his vision was still doubled, he briefly managed to make out a bot with pearly lavender paint as she skillfully slit the throat of the femme who had assaulted him and then sprinted off, leaving the blade in the side of her neck.

 _A **Kumaikon** —how fortunate,_ Strain decided as he staggered dizzily to his feet, nearly slipping in the puddle of energon expanding from the dead NET leader. His knees wobbled for a few sickening kliks before he was able to stand up a little straighter, his optics contracting weakly against the blots of color as he stumbled vaguely in the direction the others had gone.

Another hand clamped around his arm just as tightly as Prowl’s had and Strain’s first instinct was to jerk away from this foreign enemy, but before he could a low voice pressed close to his audial, close enough that he could hear it beneath the ringing. “Hurry, Strain. C’mon, _hurry!_ ” The hand that guided him and the voice were both familiar— _Ordinance_.

Stuttering a bewildered, half-formed question, Strain cast a fleeting look upward at his former police partner, who didn’t offer any explanation as they rushed across the battlefield, bobbing past falling bodies and the explosions and ricochets that accompanied them.

“Fall back!” Prowl roared at his subordinates from far across the way, forcing Ordinance to bodily slide his arm around Strain’s chest and lift him before he faltered, doing the work for them both until they reached the platforms that led to the ground level of Praxus.

“You heard ’im. Get outta here,” Ordinance commanded, lifting Strain onto the first platform and then turning back. Strain couldn’t find the words to protest before a hand was reaching down for him from above. Venting hurriedly, he clambered up the arm it belonged to, nearly falling off balance as Vestige, the owner of the arm, shook him off once he was on his feet. The surviving policemechs weren’t far behind, but one mech made it only halfway up into the sunlight before something caught him and dragged him back down.

Strain didn’t have to give the order. Vestige bolted, diving into alt. mode and making a reckless, swerving getaway, cutting down several side streets.

 _They won’t catch both of us_. With this thought clear in his mind, Strain fell into transformation and split off in the opposite direction.

—

Maxim shook off his last phase little by little, taking his time as he surveyed the razed camp and flexing his dripping fingers at his sides.

There were broken frames everywhere, twisted in various states of their last agony. A few of them wore the distinctive paint of the law, which gave Maxim a slight pause. He stared down at the one Precision had dispatched, pulling him back down just as he was reaching for the light, pinning him against the nearest wall and blasting him in the face with his suppression bursts, lowering him down with a civil gentleness and leaving him to check on Wayfair and Torchlight’s progress.

“The killing of a Cybertronian being by a sane person, with intent, malice, and forethought, and with no legal excuse or authority…In those clear circumstances, this is first degree murder,” he remarked offhandedly. For a nanoklik he almost believed he was feeling remorse until he recalled that Precision was not sane in any sense. Therefore, it wasn’t murder.

It was a fitting end to the **Kumaikon** , an end with a clear message: _If you infringe on us, we lay waste to you_.

“Justice is served,” Maxim concluded serenely, looking up as Residue called out to them. Something in the Culumexian’s voice quickened the judge’s strides but once he saw the body Residue indicated, he faltered to a stop.

“Inverse?” Cogentia muttered warily, crouching and fingering the knife in their fellow NET leader’s neck.

“How…unfortunate,” Precision mused, his broken, fluctuating tones consistent and low for the first time since he had arrived. “Allow me.” With that he nudged Cogentia aside, performing a brief examination, supplying, “She was killed approximately one joor into our battle, where she now lies. There was a struggle…Her forearms were broken beforehand, leaving her without her audial disruptor or her blades. She attempted to rise and was pinned down. This knife is a **Kumaikon** weapon.” As he glanced up at the others, there was no trace of emotion on his face, but a small note of _something_ caught in his voice as he proclaimed, “Her sacrifice will live on in my new patients. I will be sure of that.”

Maxim’s frown deepened and remained long after he and the rest drifted away from the battlefield to their council chambers. During the debriefing, he considered Inverse’s empty chair across from him. She was the only NET patient on the council and while he hadn’t been overly fond of her, she in turn had devoted herself to him. She had clung to him as a source of protection, trust, and wisdom and he hadn’t been there to see her fall.

Her fall…How could she have fallen to a mere **Kumaikon**? She wasn’t as agile as Cogentia, as strong as Precision, as sure and calculating as Residue or as resilient as Corewheel, but she was all of those things to a degree and she was a leader of NET. She was a member of the core and she had been there for a reason.

With her death, there was now a gap—the empty chair he was studying. There was the promise of power, of prestige, of promotion. There was the prospect of Harmonex, an entire city to take.

Something wasn’t right. Setting his jaw, Maxim swept his gaze over each of the other council members, searching for treason. He read only honesty in each of them, but he wasn’t going to give up. He remembered Inverse bowing to him, adoring him, and he wasn’t going to let that devotion be forgotten. He would continue his investigation until there was evidence and then justice would again be served.

That evidence came sooner rather than later. As Maxim and the others left the council chamber, each preparing to go their own way and pack up for the journey home, he noticed the new Thriller, Torchlight, excitedly hugging the arm of his partner, the Passive.

“Ooh, I’m so excited for them, Wayfair! Can you believe it? Lux and Lustre are going to be wonderful in their new positions; they’re going to help so many people!”

It took barely three kliks for Maxim to cross the hallway toward them. Torchlight squeaked lightly as the judge’s large hand closed around him from behind, pulling him to a more discreet corner. “Oh! Hello, Maxim, sir!”

“I require…information,” Maxim growled.

“Well, in that case, I’m at your service! How can I help?” Torchlight offered eagerly, optics shining at the prospect of aiding a councilmech.

“You were speaking of your carers’ promotion. I want to hear more.”

“Lustre intends to take up Inverse’s place,” Wayfair supplied dispassionately. “She’s always believed that NET patients are meant to _be_ patients, not leaders. She and Lux have desperately wanted the chance to prove their worth to the council—”

“Hey! He asked me, not you,” Torchlight reminded his partner teasingly before returning his attention to Maxim, lightly patting the hand that was still locked around his waist as he leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, “Lustre wanted a place on the council to open up, so she followed you all to talk with Inverse about it! I saw them in the battle together!”

“Did you?” Maxim hummed, tightening his grip so Torchlight squeaked and giggled again. “Tell me, Thriller…was Lux involved in this conversation?”

“No, no, Lux didn’t know,” Torchlight assured him. “I think Lustre wanted to surprise him!” He grunted lightly as Maxim dropped him to his feet and then scrambled to bow as he whisked away. “Happy to help, sir!”

Barely a joor later, Lux looked up from the comatose patient Precision had given him to ready for travel, mildly surprised when he saw Maxim filling the doorway.

“Hello, sir,” he greeted, frowning lightly as he extracted his probe from the patient’s spark chamber and leaned one hip against the wheeled tool tray nearby. “Is there something you need from me?”

“I simply wanted to inform the next of kin,” Maxim explained. Lux raised an eyebrow, half-glancing toward the patient, but Maxim shook his helm at the unasked question. “Not him… _you_. You are never going to see your sparkmate again.”

It took several kliks for the inference to sink in and when it did, the probe fell with a resounding clang onto the floor. Lux shook his helm minutely, taking a step back, and Maxim tilted his helm, his expression almost sympathetic.

“Why? Why her? She…she was nothing to you,” Lux managed, shaking his helm more violently. “She never did anything to—”

“She murdered Inverse. She slit her throat and left her body for us to find. That is first-degree murder and murderers are punished accordingly. But…” Maxim took several steps forward, casting Lux’s stunned face into shadow. “I believe you are still worthy of fulfilling her last wish. You will take up the branch in Harmonex under my direct supervision. I have a feeling you’ll be a _just_ leader there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pheeeeew...that was a little intense O.o But hey, if there would ever be a bloodbath in this story, it would be here and now...


	21. Chapter 21

_The last time I was in a hospital, I was preparing to break away from my pace._

_Not this time. This time, I’m not going anywhere._

Repeating this vow on a loop in his mind, Strain drifted warily into the hospital room where Smokescreen was staying. Under any other circumstance, the constant beeping of the spark monitor would annoy him, but right now his audials were still recovering from the assault from the NET leader. He could hear it, just not as starkly, and he found himself more than thankful to the machine for reminding him of this miracle: Smokescreen was alive.

Perching on the edge of the medical berth, Strain looked his friend over. It wasn’t often that he saw Smokescreen so helpless. More often than not, Smokescreen was several leaps and bounds ahead of whoever was in the room with him, but here he had no trace of his signature coy smile or the glow of a scheme in his optics. He was calm and still, peaceful, and if it hadn’t been for the spark monitor and the various tubes, Strain could imagine this berth was his final resting place.

The thought made him ache, breaking down the detached act he had promised himself when he first arrived. At the moment, Prowl and Bluestreak were discussing their cousin’s recovery with the medics, which left no one to stop him from reaching out and gently touching Smokescreen’s left doorwing, the one that had been damaged most severely.

He ran his fingers along the edges of his friend’s doorwing, taking note of the dents, dust and rough patches riddling the metal. Ex-venting uncertainly as he realized what it was devolving into, he nevertheless shifted forward a bit more, lifting the wing with one arm and then sliding a few of his opposite fingers into a vent seam, scraping away the grime lodged inside.

“Praxians aren’t like Vosnians,” his carrier would tell him. “They don’t preen their doorwings nearly as often and when they do, it’s probably out of a need instead of a want but when your sire and I were together, I learned that initiating it was a good way of showing affection. It always eased him into a better mood and proved that he was important to me, that I wanted to take care of him.”

Why that had come to mind now, Strain didn’t know, but in a way it didn’t matter. Now that he had started, he felt duty-bound to continue. His fingers fell against a joint, checking to be sure everything was in its right place again. The joint was tense and squeaky with fatigue, but Strain wasn’t equipped with the oils needed to fix that, so he simply shifted his hold on it back and forth, working it to a more comfortable position. As he did so, Smokescreen’s long-ago words came back to him.

_“I’m trying to protect you.”_

Ever since they met, Smokescreen had been trying to protect him—and what had that gotten him? It ended in torture, the murder of dozens of Praxians, and this broken doorwing. The sight of it lying in his hands brought a familiar wave of guilt crashing down on him and for a few kliks, he relived what he had on the battlefield and forgot how to vent.

“ **Men aalha** ,” he murmured, the Praxian inflections cooperating with his tongue for the first time since his return. “I can never begin to tell you how sorry I am.”

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before Smokescreen shifted, optics flickering. Strain was about to recoil when the doorwing stopped him, settling more deliberately, more trustingly into his hands. He swallowed. After everything that happened, the least he could do was give Smokescreen whatever comfort he wanted, so he stayed where he was.

Though he wasn’t quite awake yet, Smokescreen registered that someone was touching his doorwing. He couldn’t find it in himself to mind, but he thought he must be dreaming when he realized who the hands belonged to.

“Strain?” Smokescreen whispered, his voice raspy from lack of use—or was it from screaming? Strain wondered, a flicker of horror mingling with the second surge of remorse.

“Yes. How are you feeling?”

“Like someone pushed me from the top of the High Command Aerie, but I don’t think that really happened, so…what _did_ happen?”

Strain didn’t answer immediately, allowing Smokescreen time to adjust to his new surroundings. He could feel an IV lodged in the crook of his right elbow as well as uncomfortable tubes that had been maneuvered into his vents, but more than that he could feel the stinging distress through every inch of his damaged plating. He wasn’t about to mention that.

“The medics say you’ll need some intensive therapy,” Strain stated at last. “I suspect they’re going to focus on recovering your equilibrium, since your doorwings received most of the prominent injuries.”

“Don’t I know it. But I’ll have enough time to think about that when I’m doing it. I want to know about your grand escapades.” When Strain failed to smile, Smokescreen’s faded and he ventured further, “The **Kumaikon** …?”

“Brought to the ground.”

Digesting this news, Smokescreen briefly realized that he didn’t feel as relieved as he thought he would. Instead he felt detached from it, itching to make absolutely certain. He would have to ask Prowl about those details. “Alright then,” he concurred, his tone revealing none of these thoughts. “I knew the police would be thorough.”

“Oh, it wasn’t their efforts, Smokescreen. They played a part, but it was mostly due to NET’s involvement.”

Struggling to sit up straighter, Smokescreen echoed incredulously, “Wait, since when were they involved in—? Primus, what have I missed?”

Clearing his throat tactfully, Strain began explaining the events leading up to this moment from his point of view. As he did, Smokescreen suspected he could already fill in some of the gaps from Prowl’s end; his cousin would have followed all of the proper procedures for getting him back before ever considering going outside the guidelines.

Strain was more like him, more willing to rebel for the chance of getting what he wanted, which was why he could also suspect what Strain wasn’t saying as he faltered to a stop in his explanation of Railway’s arrest. When Strain never picked up his unfinished sentence again, Smokescreen opted not to pry.

“The important thing is that he got what he deserved,” he declared confidently, hoping it would be encouraging. Instead Strain only grimaced further and Smokescreen sank somewhat, resigning himself to a more somber conversation. “What’s that frown about, buddy?”

“You remember how you said turning on my pace must have been like turning on my family?” Strain mumbled despondently, optics fixed to the back wall. “I learned nothing from it. I did the same thing here—I turned away from you.”

“Strain, I hope you know who you’re talking to,” Smokescreen claimed, chuckling incredulously. “I’m the mech you _saved_.”

“You wouldn’t have needed saving if I had been there for you in the first place. I let you be hurt. I ran like a coward, only thinking of myself. I left you, betrayed you, like I did my pace, and I realized it too late to help you. I’m so sorry.”

Smokescreen had automatically started assessing his friend as soon as his fuzzy vision had cleared, detecting something off, and he was right to. Frankly, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Strain was the least sentimental mech he knew—sans Prowl when he was focused on work—but the side of him Smokescreen observed now was startlingly vulnerable. There were ragged shadows sharpening his features and a muted, greasy shine to his plating; he looked like he hadn’t washed or recharged in quite a long time.

“You don’t need to apologize, Strain. For all we know, you might have been captured with me if you stayed and that wouldn’t do either of us any good,” Smokescreen pointed out, sensing that didn’t make Strain feel any better. He went on anyway. “That’s why I _told_ you to run; I knew what I was getting into. It wasn’t you.”

“It was. I—I take pride in seeing the danger, in being _prepared_ , and I’ve finally recognized the fact that I never am. I’ve made one mistake after another for forty vorns,” Strain hissed, his grip tightening on Smokescreen’s doorwing like it was a shield. “I turned my back on my duty, on the citizens of Praxus when I fled to Culumex instead of making up for my mistake. There I was affected, _in_ fected, by the pace I could never really be a part of and then I abandoned them too for my own benefit, my pardon. I thought I could come back here and be something I never could again—I thought I could belong. You gave me a second chance and I ran from you again. I ran out of fear.”

Optics falling further down the wall, he scoffed lightly, features pained. “If I were a Culumexian, I would have been strong enough to stand with you. If I were a Praxian, I would have thought of taking you with me in my escape. I can’t claim to be either.”

“No, maybe you can’t,” Smokescreen sighed, lifting a dented, unsteady hand and brushing it against Strain’s arm, trying to be reassuring. “You’re _both_. You came for me just like my family did.”

“Not on my own merits. I needed help from strangers to even come close to finding you—”

“Strain, stop,” Smokescreen cut in, frustration finally breaking through. “Just listen to me. You always try to put the world’s problems on your shoulders and that—from what I can tell, that’s a lot like _both_ of your races. You can’t blame yourself for everything. I make mistakes too; some of them get me hurt and there’s nothing either of us can do about that.”

Strain’s craggy shoulders slumped further at these words and Smokescreen vented shallowly, searching for something else to say. His own regrets were seeping through the cracks. “I’m the one who owes you an apology.”

“What?! Why?”

“It was my fault you became involved in the first place. I thought it would help you move on from what happened with Incinerator and his pace…and by the way, I was responsible for _that_ too. I was the one who recommended you to Prowl for going undercover. I didn’t even think about how it would hurt you in the end.”

“Smokescreen, that was—I chose to take it. I put myself at risk for that.”

“So there’s plenty of responsibility to go around. You don’t need to take it all.” When Strain didn’t reply, clearly still skeptical, Smokescreen continued deliberately, “Y’know…I wouldn’t be surprised if Prowl’s around here somewhere, having all the same guilt you are. He’s probably thinking, ‘I should never have let him take the assignment, I should never have let him out of my sight. It’s my fault he got hurt.’ That sound familiar? He’s probably wracking himself for it all right now, cos he’s like a brother to me. D’you see what that means?” Strain fidgeted, peeking tentatively over at him, and Smokescreen offered him a faint half-smile. “That means you are too. And that means you _do_ belong somewhere.”

As Smokescreen watched, he could easily see the emotions warring across his friend’s face. There was something shaky there, something that just might hope to believe it. That relieved him enough that he could recall how thoroughly exhausted he was. “I think I’ll leave you with that,” he informed him. “Just do something for me, alright? Make sure these medics know what they’re doing; I want to make sure I look better going out than I did going in.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Strain swore lowly.

“Oh, on the contrary, I want to be pampered like a Prime,” Smokescreen retorted dismissively before he relaxed back into recharge.

After several more minutes of mulling this over, Strain meticulously finished his preening of first one and then the other doorwing before leaving Smokescreen in Prowl and Bluestreak’s care. The guilt hadn’t entirely left him but it wasn’t such a hard weight in his chest, which left his spark free to jump when he turned the corner toward the waiting room and came face to face with an unexpected visitor.

“Sire?”

Streamline glanced up from the data pads provided for entertainment, hastily setting his aside and rising when he saw him. “Strain! The ordeal with that terrorist group is on every news channel. One of the policemechs was answering questions about the raid and he said their compound was near the outskirts. I tried to call you, but…” He trailed off, doorwings falling uncertainly as he ventured closer. “I came here because I—I didn’t know if you were anywhere near the conflict.”

“I was,” Strain admitted after a pause. “And I’ve had my comm. link turned off since then; my audials were slightly damaged in the crossfire and, frankly, I’ve been fighting a helm-ache.”

“The crossfire? Strain…you were in the middle of that fight?” At Strain’s short nod, Streamline started to add something else and then opted against it. “Well, if you were there to see that, I suspect I don’t have to tell you that you could have been killed.”

“I have a distinct feeling NET wouldn’t have allowed that to happen,” Strain snorted in a pedal tone, promptly taken aback by how Streamline instantly trembled at the words.

“NET—they were—?” Streamline finally managed to close the distance between them, taking ahold of his arms and looking him over. “How close did they get? H-How close did I come to losing you?”

Strain blinked rapidly, sorely tempted to squirm away in his surprise as he retorted, “You _know_ how badly they want me?” He asked more out of confusion than an actual desire for an answer; from the fierce flux thrown into Streamline’s EM field, he knew without a doubt.

“Your carrier told me of the threat they posed in Culumex and I knew its presence here was partially why she raised you on the outskirts. She wanted you to be nondescript, outside their immediate reach,” Streamline explained hurriedly. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Sire, I’m fine. I’ve evaded their reach this long,” Strain reminded him guardedly. “I suspect they’ll withdraw somewhat after this appearance by their six core members. Besides, one of them was lost in the battle; they’ll be busy recovering from that loss. I’m quite safe at the moment.”

Inch by inch Streamline seemed to relax at these words, though not entirely. With a brief nod, he released Strain’s arms, partially turning away and then thinking better of it. “I haven’t…Recently I’ve been thinking of you, of how I treated you when you first returned.”

Old hurt stirring with the memory, Strain nodded curtly. “I recall,” he concurred, keeping his tone even.

“I never earned the right to treat you so carelessly. I was that, careless, just as I was with your carrier, and in my carelessness, I never bothered to tell you the things I should have: that I was glad you had returned safely, that I had missed you, and how truly sorry I was for Verity’s death.” He shifted uncomfortably. “But I can tell you this now: I have no idea why on Cybertron you would ever entangle yourself in something so dangerous—”

 _And I suspect you never want to,_ Strain was tempted to accuse.

“—but I do believe that whatever your reasoning, it was brave—something your carrier would do and be exceptionally proud of.”

Strain’s accusations dissolved into less than nothing. Hesitantly he opened his mouth but nothing came to mind to say. Streamline offered him a rueful smile in response to his speechlessness. “You _are_ exceptional, Strain. She would be proud of that too. She was, in fact…just as I am.”

“Really?” Strain blurted before he could stop himself.

Regret deepened Streamline’s smile where it rested as he slowly but surely nodded. “Yes. No one has the right to change you; you’re not a slave to anyone.”

“My pace-leader once told me the same thing,” Strain realized, optics wide and bright.

“The one you left behind?” At Strain’s hum of affirmative, his sire huffed softly. “In that case, I’m sorry that he realized it sooner than I have.” With that, he set his shoulders back, pivoting toward the nearby doors.

“Don’t. Sire…you can stay, if you’d like.” All at once Strain was struck with the sensation of being small and shy, almost hopeful. Was this what hoping felt like? Streamline glanced over his shoulder, a familiar reluctance in his face that made Strain swallow with difficulty.

“I’ve never been fond of hospitals, Strain.”

“Oh.” Strain searched for something else to look at before Streamline registered his disappointment.

“But I was only planning on a trip to the nearest restaurant before I returned. Do you want to join me?”

With Smokescreen in safe hands, Strain felt free to offer a nod. “As long as it isn’t Critical Junction…The staff are uncomfortable serving me.”

“Then they’re simply smallminded and biased and should find somewhere else to work where you don’t need to look at them.” At Strain’s wordless stare, Streamline shrugged, seeming mildly amused by his reaction. “That’s my creation they’re talking about.”

Ducking his helm to hide a private smile, Strain followed his sire outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere...


	22. Chapter 22

“Oh…it’s you,” Vestige gasped, his vision awash with sputtering, refracted light. He clenched his optics tightly shut against it, wishing he had chosen a darker room to hide in. Strain didn’t speak right away, simply standing in the doorway and staring at him with blended anger and disdain. That stare made Vestige’s nervecircuits burn with similarly mingled emotions: defensiveness first, hiding guilt behind it.

When Strain had arrived, Vestige didn’t know. So far he was the only mech associated with the events of the past diun who could catch Vestige unawares, at least until he got close enough that he could pick up his energon scent. This time it had taken much longer than usual, the tendrils of sharp-tasting chemicals curling around him. Ever so slowly that biting scent was fading, leaving behind a vague, acrid pressure that forced him to clench his teeth in just the right position that he could drown it out.

As it was, all it did was cause a spike in his already-lancing headache, which left him clutching at the nearby counter so he could prevent sliding onto the grimy floor of the underground washroom. The washroom wasn’t in the best condition and even as his processor data became more and more corrupted without another dose of his drug of choice, Vestige could distinctly feel the grit and oil under his feet and was quite sure he didn’t want his face anywhere near it.

“What have you done?” Strain questioned in a low hiss that indicated he already knew _exactly_ what had been done. When Vestige glanced back up at him, he noticed that the other mech was holding out the crumpled Syk package he had stuffed into the back of the cold storage as soon as they’d returned from the **Kumaikon** compound. He should have known it would be found. It had been a fatally sloppy hiding place, but it was the first he had thought of as he could sense the drug’s benefits wearing down into detriments. At that point he had simply been desperate to escape Strain and Spectrum’s prying optics before he went completely down the tubes.

“What does it look like?” Vestige muttered, the words shaking in his dry throat before they left his equally dry mouth. “Don’t answer that. I-If I know you, you’ll say s-something like ‘Oh, it looks like you’ve made a fool of yourself’.”

Really, how well did he know Strain? He didn’t, but it seemed like something he might say and the expression he wore revealed that he was contemplating a similar phrase.

“You _have_ ,” Strain pointed out, the sheer calmness of his lowered tone proving that he was less than pleased with Vestige’s prediction. The other mech was piping hot, Vestige corrected himself as Strain fully entered the washroom and moreover locked the door once it slid closed behind him, prowling toward him like a hunter advancing on a young turbofox. Vestige suspected he should feel threatened, but at the moment he couldn’t muster the energy. The banter itself was taking a lot out of him.

The other Outcrosser laid down what was left of the Syk on the counter and then in a unique twist of things, he came to a halt, looming over him. The hand that reached out and rested on Vestige’s shoulder was cold—223.5 degrees, to be exact—and he shivered even more violently, but it was a bit of relief from his own overheating systems.

“If Spectrum had—” Strain began, cut off when Vestige choked out a laugh.

“You worried about tainting his innocence? It’s a little late for that, given what he saw you do to that glitch back in the field.”

Hand tightening warningly, Strain started to open his mouth and then thought better of it, glancing down and away with a distinctly uneasy expression. Vestige followed his example, unsure why a sudden tingle of remorse was now lacing its way through his withdrawals, tightening his internals further.

“But you’re—you’re right,” he conceded with a shrug that tried to be nonchalant. “He’d probably have a spark flux.” Speaking of fluxing, his internals were at threat for a purge. Pursing his lips firmly against it and swallowing uncomfortably, he hastily shrugged again, away from Strain’s hand, and slid onto the floor he had hoped to avoid, hiding his face in the drain so he could retch in relative privacy if he had to. His vents hitched several times and then he finished, words muffled, “But he didn’t, so he won’t.”

That was all he had time for before he shuddered violently, purging what was left of the energon he drank this morning and leaving his throat raw and broken. His systems burned, overwrought and humiliated simultaneously.

“You’ve had the substance before and you’ve conquered it,” Strain continued. “What on Cybertron possessed you to use it again?”

He wasn’t going to answer that. Sitting up from his kneeling position over the drain, Vestige wiped his mouth with one hand and made to stand, swaying drastically before managing to reach his full height. “Slag off,” he grumbled in an undertone, causing _both_ of the other mech’s cold hands to grip his arms.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard. I would’ve thought you would leave me to suffer. You j-just…enjoying the show? Why haven’t you left yet?” Against his own volition, Vestige was rocking back and forth in nervousness and desperation to escape the situation. All he wanted was to purge again, drink several cubes of medical-grade energon and collapse onto his berth—not necessarily in that order.

“Because I’m needed,” was the answer, both infuriated and infuriat _ing_. Vestige wrenched away from Strain when he said it. His sensory net and nervecircuits were scalding because Strain had held onto his arms far too long and his voice grated on the audials and the scent of his foreign energon twisted his internals; it was all so fraggin’ _disgusting_ —

Vestige rebooted then, abrupt and stiff, and found himself lying on top of twisted thermal tarps. The weathered smell and rough stains barely computed—they didn’t belong, he didn’t know them! He formed a startled half-question, mostly unintelligible, and there was no answer, sending a vault of fear through his systems. Turning over, he was assaulted by a wave of vertigo and his plating itched with what seemed like thousands of crawling sensations, setting him on fire. It was too much data! Where was he? What was this room?

Oh, Primus, had Strain brought him here? _Strain_ …He was the last mech Vestige recalled seeing. Where were Strain and Spectrum? It was just as he had suspected, he realized, optics widening and watering helplessly. They had left him behind to suffer on his own out of their disgust with him!

Strain was right. He had taken Syk before, but it had been so long ago that he had forgotten the hideous withdrawals. Maybe…maybe they would come back after he recovered. But he hardly knew them; he couldn’t be sure. Those dirty scrapheaps had abandoned him to wake up in a strange place without them there!

 _But maybe tomorrow_ , he tried to reason, painfully, shamefully lonely, _tomorrow things’ll be back to normal_.

No matter how much time had passed, it felt like tomorrow would never come. There were only nightmares, twisted ways their mission could have gone wrong. Where NET missed, he faltered just a nanoklik too long and they were on him, foraging, invading, ready to take him apart. It was any mech of interest’s fear, no matter how strong or how brave they believed they were. When it came down to it, the idea of NET was the idea of death.

He was trapped. He died by NET’s hands more times than he could count and every time he did, he woke just enough to wonder if all of this pain he felt was because the dream had finally become a reality.

There were some times when, in the very deep depths of his mind, he wished it had become real so he could die again sooner and finally have it end for good.

In the haze of it all, he felt warm fingers briefly touch him; they could have been stabbing him for all of the pain it left behind. He stirred, aching and disoriented, and then heard a voice.

“Vestige…”

His processor was trying to sort out the voice. His audials weren’t working correctly— _that’s new_ —and when he choked out a name, it didn’t seem to match the voice.

“It’s almost over, I believe. You’re going to come back from this; I’m going to make sure of that.”

When he came online the next time—or was it the last time?—his processor was foggy, but he could at least form full thoughts. Struggling, he pushed himself into a sitting position in his berth, entire frame burning like he’d been beaten. He hissed weakly, vibroblades fighting with his trembling fingertips, but the weapons wouldn’t do anything to lessen the pain.

Behind the scent of what he’d purged over the course of…however long it was…Vestige recognized _that_ smell. “How long?” he spat, his vocalizer crackling.

“Nearly a quintun,” Strain acquiesced, coming into partial view, his dark colors playing with the shadows as he gestured derisively—at what exactly, Vestige wasn’t sure—and then continued. “Before I read your full **Operation: Plexus** file, I never would have suspected any strong mech like you could have fallen prey to something like this.”

“Yeah…? Well, if you read my f-file, you know why.”

Strain paused, considering, and then dipped his helm in a small nod. “I do. But the pressures of living up to your sire’s prestige were hardly an excuse to debase yourself like this. They still aren’t.”

Glowering at nothing in particular, Vestige growled, “You really need to work on your berthside manner.”

“I’m not presently in the mood to try,” Strain quipped bluntly. “So let’s get you back on your feet. Spectrum will be waiting for us.”

—

Spectrum glanced up, instinctively tensing as the door slid open. “It’s good to see you,” he ventured nonetheless as Vestige skulked into the room, Strain close at his back. “Strain said you had some things you needed to take care of…How did it go?”

“Oh, is _that_ what he told you?” Vestige muttered, a bitter smile tearing at his lips. Apparently not expecting an answer, he shakily brushed past him on route to the cold storage unit. Spectrum hesitated, unsure what to make of that remark, and then tensed a bit more, tilting his helm just enough that his visor could flash without Vestige’s notice, surreptitiously performing a scan.

 _Tremors, dilated optics, stiffness, low energy level, irregular spark rate…He’s coming out of withdrawal!_ Spectrum realized, astonishment striking hard as he jerked his helm around toward Strain, who met his gaze unflinchingly, as well as the accusation it posed.

Not for the first time this past quintun, Spectrum’s mind turned back to what he had seen of Strain in the battle, the _other_ side of him—the tearing, wrenching, raging mechanimal who couldn’t be reasoned with.

If he was honest, Strain’s sudden turn to violence had genuinely scared him, more so than any of the **Kumaikon** had, because it had been there all along and he hadn’t seen it; it had stayed hidden behind the mask of a mech who knew exactly what he was doing, what it was leading up to, and he didn’t have an iota of guilt for it. Spectrum bravely resisted the urge to shudder. That mech was here, now, staring back at him and readily taking credit for what Vestige was going through—taking credit for his suffering.

 _He was trying to help him,_ another side of Spectrum argued, sounding all too desperate to vindicate it. _He was trying to take care of him, in a way, but…_

He had a distinct feeling that whatever Strain had done was not a method Spectrum would have chosen, and that feeling was crushing any protests in Strain’s favor. He hadn’t seen Vestige in a quintun, after all. Who knew what Strain could have done in that time?

 _It isn’t right_.

All of Spectrum’s doubts solidified into that one thought and he tore his gaze away from Strain’s, clenching his fists loosely and peeking back at Vestige, who was now leaning against the side wall. Vestige frowned more deeply in return, forcing Spectrum back a step. For a few minutes he simply absorbed the cavernous silence among them and then cleared his throat to speak. Vestige beat him to it, setting his energon cube down with a sharp clink.

“Well! What a ride! It’s been a slaggin’ pleasure, you two, but I think it’s about time I _take care_ of some things,” he announced, his tone excessively cheerful as it contrasted with his haggard features. Strain turned on him sharply, seeming taken back, and Vestige shrugged dismissively, elaborating, “It’s been fun, really, but I don’t know you or trust you— _either_ of you. You bribed me with a chance to fight and a few energon cubes and now I’ve gotten both. We’ve all gotten what we want. I’d say our business is done, don’t you?”

“I…I suppose it is, if that’s what you want,” Strain agreed after several moments. Another beat of silence passed before Vestige dropped the cheerful act, nodding curtly and pivoting for the door.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he remarked, sounding less than enthusiastic but not entirely cold, adding as an afterthought, “If not…well, best of luck with NET.”

“What? I—I mean—Uh, thank you, Vestige, for everything,” Spectrum managed in a rush before the other mech swept out of sight, leaving him and Strain to themselves.

Blinking through the suddenness of the leave-taking, Spectrum cleared his throat a second time and then hesitated. He glanced uncomfortably at his companion. Strain looked oddly confused, Spectrum noted, reluctance lacing through his decision as he stepped closer, reaching out and then thinking better of it.

“Strain,” he began gingerly, faltering as the other mech looked back at him, confusion and…something akin to hurt stinging in his optics. He couldn’t let that deter him. “Strain, I’m afraid I need to be going too.” Strain’s expression didn’t change; in fact it only settled more firmly onto his face as he spoke one word, stiff and monotone:

“Why?”

Spectrum fidgeted. “You’ve done what you needed to do and I respect that…more than you know, but I’m going to do what _I_ need to. I can’t…I don’t think I can reconcile what I’ve seen you do. I can’t do what you can; we’re just wired differently.” He needed to get down to the point, Spectrum realized, optics scrunching up in frustration behind his visor. “I’m better off on my own, I think, and it’s probably going to be a long time before I see you again, if I ever do.”

“…You said you trusted me,” Strain said hollowly, searching Spectrum’s face for something he wasn’t finding.

“I did. But it’s only partially about that,” Spectrum admitted. “NET came close this time, too close. I need to relocate. If you feel safe here, this place is yours. All three of us are going to be starting fresh and…maybe that’ll be better.” When Strain did nothing but blink back at him, Spectrum sighed lightly, glancing around at the room he had called home for so long. When he resettled on the mech in front of him, he concluded ruefully, “I wish you nothing but the best. Like Vestige said, maybe—maybe we’ll see each other around.”

With that he drifted slowly in Vestige’s wake, already plotting his course to retrieve more provisions from his usual tavern, the door closing behind him with a succinct clank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right after the nice fluff and feels of the last chapter, _boom_ , more angst for poor Strain :( For the first time in forty years, he is the one being left behind instead of the one leaving...It's gotta be pretty surreal for him, not to mention hurtful.


	23. Chapter 23

* * *

  **Ten Diuns Later**

* * *

 

“Well, this was a good orn’s work,” Bluestreak announced with exaggerated vigor, pausing for several moments and then groaning quietly as he watched another guardsmech being dragged off to the cells. “I really thought we had found the last of the **Kumaikon’s** supporters _diuns_ ago, Prowl, but something about that one made me trust him when he first said he wasn’t involved. Now I find some of their propaganda in his storage unit and…What—what does that say about me?”

“It says that you believe the best of people,” Prowl reminded him, sending him a faint throb of reassurance through their bond and planting a hand on his back as he followed his gaze.

“I don’t want to be paranoid,” Bluestreak complained, earning a raised eyebrow when he added, “I have you for that, after all. But cleaning up after these terrorists…It all just makes me a little jumpy, I guess. What if the guard I call my partner is actually one of them?”

“You don’t need to worry; I made sure my contacts at the Assembly vetted him before you were assigned together,” Prowl answered before he could think. Bluestreak stiffened a nanoklik or two at these words before launching into a startled laugh.

“That’s what I mean— _paranoid!_ But I guess I should thank you; he’s a nice mech and I’d hate to bring him here where you could get your hands on him.”

Prowl scowled at him, lightly bopping their doorwings together in response before heading back into his office. Chuckling, Bluestreak followed, proclaiming more optimistically. “The good news is that I’m fairly sure this time that was the last Assembly guardsmech you’ll see coming into the station! You don’t need to worry.” When Prowl offered no answer as he sat at his desk, Bluestreak peered at him curiously. “Unless…that isn’t what you’re worried about.”

Prowl tilted his helm ruefully, almost managing to sound amused as he remarked, “You know me too well.” The wryness faded from his optics all too soon as they wandered toward the nearby newsfeed. “It’s just that…I don’t feel as if the city is recovering from this. I feel as if the disbandment of the **Kumaikon** has simply stirred up more dissension; it’s brought to light things that no one saw beneath the surface.”

Looking vaguely crestfallen, Bluestreak protested, “W-Well, that’s a _good_ thing! We can see it now and we can stop them before they even think of doing what the **Kumaikon** did on such a big scale! Thank the Allspark for that, too…”

“Civil unrest doesn’t necessarily need to have the propaganda to be just that, Bluestreak, and not all of it does,” Prowl sighed. “You’re spared most of it; only high-class criminals would go so far as to make any attempts on the council. Here, I see it all. Low-caste crime has risen—everything from thefts to blackmail to abduction—and mid-casters, while they’ve never been very agreeable with the low caste, are becoming more and more antagonistic toward them. I’ve been forced to break up several escalating arguments on almost all of my patrols…”

“Prowl, it’s like you said—you see it all. Maybe things will die down once the public realize the **Kumaikon** aren’t among them anymore,” Bluestreak suggested. “You have to give them some time. Smokescreen’s still at therapy, isn’t he? I’m not saying I agree with it, but maybe they’re thinking of what they’re doing like it’s something…therapeutic. Give it a few vorns and I’m sure it will get better. It's just like what the experts say: recovery takes time!”

Prowl stayed quiet, staring up into his brother’s earnest optics, and vented deeply. “Perhaps you’re right,” he conceded aloud, but something in the back of his mind insisted that Bluestreak truly did see the best in others—perhaps far too much so.

_Primus, I just hope his trust isn’t blind…_

 

* * *

**Twenty-Six Vorns Later**  

* * *

 

“There you are, Pylon,” Overclutch offered, leaning far over the counter to hand the sparkling his sweet of choice. The mechling’s pale blue optics widened in delight and his following smile was shy but sweet; it went straight to Overclutch’s spark. He smiled in return, adding, “It’s always nice to see you,” and then straightened, the warmth in his chest making way for something warier sinking in as he observed the conflict happening not five yards away: two femmes pulling apart their creations, hissing at each other in voices that weren’t meant to carry quite so far.

“I’ve already told you, I don’t plan on letting my mechling associate with yours any longer!” the taller femme spat at the other, whose doorwings were shivering in barely suppressed fury. “I know your kind. Sooner or later, he’ll be using his favor with my creation to—to _buy_ things from the rest of our caste! I won’t have it; I won’t have him taken advantage of!”

“Carrier—!” said mechling whined in dismay, tugging against her hand and staring at his former playmate with wide optics. Pylon followed Overclutch’s gaze and then peeked back at him uncertainly, optics equally wide, and Overclutch nodded reassuringly in response.

“Ah, don’t worry, lad. I’ll handle this.” So saying, he moved past the other customers browsing the shelves, tossing a brief greeting to the familiars, and then came to a stop just short of being in between the two femmes, who peered up at him tersely. “Madams, I’m afraid you’re obstructing the entryway and making some of my other customers uncomfortable.” Here he flicked a wing pointedly back at Pylon, who hunched his shoulders anxiously as Overclutch then swept his wings upward, slow and steady, indicating dominance. “If you want to hold conversations like this, that’s your right, but please do it _discreetly_ —somewhere private.”

Glaring first at him and then at each other, the femmes nodded curtly and dragged their creations out, parting ways. Heaving a sigh, Overclutch half-turned to stride back to the counter and then paused, squinting at a lone figure standing across the street. Hard holomatter and silvery chainmail formed a hood and cloak that obscured his face, but Overclutch could sense when their optics met and he took a step back, pointedly flicking his doorwings higher. He wasn’t one to be intimidated by any means, by any _one_.

“I need to drop back upstairs for a little while,” he told his customers, keeping an obliviously cheerful note in his voice. “If you want to buy something, just leave the credits on the counter, alright?” He could hear the door chime barely a minute later, accompanied by the grating of the cloak against the floor as the hooded figure arrived and followed. It was only when he arrived upstairs that Overclutch rounded on him, remarking almost genially, “I don’t see how you intend to sneak around in that thing, what with the noise it makes while it’s dragging behind you.”

“I manage,” the other mech assured him as he let the cloak and armor dissolve into the air, revealing the extravagant dressings painted onto his armor. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”

“You too, certainly, though I must say I thought our get-together was next diun.” Looking him up and down, Overclutch added, “You’re looking fancy too. You just come from a ceremony of some kind?”

Spar smiled faintly at the question, flexing his decorated hands for Overclutch to appreciate. “My pace and I are in our Time of Delight—our One, Rusty, has found a Conjunx Endura. By now he and Polevault have left for their holiday, but I regret to say that I had to leave straight from his ceremony; as you know, Logos missions can rarely wait. While I was still in the area, I decided to drop by and visit.”

“Well, I’m not complaining,” Overclutch laughed, gesturing toward a small table near the weapons closet. “C’mon and sit down, tell me how it’s all gone!” He and Spar chatted about anything and everything, casually dodging around whatever was confidential, and then Overclutch threw up his hands, leaning back in his seat. “I trust you saw the femmes having it out by the doorway. Just the other orn I had to break up a tiff between two mechs about which one of them was allowed to come in first. It’s been several vorns now since the last blatant uprising, but I’m starting to get a little worried about these things becomin’ more common.”

“As am I,” Spar confided quietly, “Though it isn’t quite as far-spread in my city. Those of us in Logos are aware of more than the rest of Culumex, since our sector is immediately next to the capitol. Political and pacial tensions are becoming more and more prominent there and our military is being tasked with more than just prevention. We’re forced to bring in…strangers, civilians whose augmentations show very little promise, and somehow train them to be soldiers. It just isn’t in their energon; there’s been little improvement, but the Sector Council insists that more and more of our efforts should be placed on preparation rather than _creation_.”

“As an Augmenter, that has to be hard,” Overclutch hazarded cautiously, noticing that Spar was staring at his hands again. “Creating new augmentations is what you love…what you live for.”

“What else can be done? Those are our orders,” his friend answered, vocals clipped. “I live for more than that. My pace—if training civilians is what will protect them, I’ll do it. Now tell me about that little mechling I saw at the counter. He looks like you…Is he yours?”

Allowing the change in subject, Overclutch grinned affectionately. “No, Pylon’s just someone who stops in the shop from time to time. He lost his creators some time ago, so I saw fit to take him under my doorwing…” Even as he spoke, his mind was drifting on to his plans to come: there was another lad he had taken to mentoring too, one he had scheduled a meeting with, who deserved to hear the news Spar had given him.

“I left Culumex behind,” Strain predictably stated as soon as Overclutch mentioned it, later that orn. “I don’t intend to worry about it and you know that—I’ve told you more times than I could count. Why are you more invested in it than I am?”

“I’m wondering the very same thing,” Overclutch insisted, leaning across to grip Strain’s arm. “Listen, lad, we’ve kept in touch for a reason. You’ve wanted me monitoring Praxus’ spark because it’s your home city, but Culumex is just that too! You’re in a unique situation and I think it’s time you acknowledged that. I have my news from a very reliable source. Don’t tell me you’re not the _least_ bit curious what’s been happening while you’ve been gone!” As Strain’s optics slid to the side, Overclutch’s hand tightened. “What’s that look?”

“I…am,” he confessed reluctantly. “I’ve been curious for several vorns now, in fact, and I have a feeling that if you tell me what you inevitably will, I’ll have another favor to ask you—a mech I need to contact.”

—

Strain hung up his comm. link, ex-venting heavily as he mulled over everything that had been described by the mech on the other end. It hadn’t been easy, but Overclutch had managed to put him back in contact with a mech he and his pace had employed in their final joors. Upon receiving what was no doubt a disposable comm. code, Strain had finally come to realize that there wasn’t any way of going back. For the sake of his second people, for the memory of his carrier, he needed to know.

Twincharge had been stunned to hear from him, to say the least, but Strain had pointedly avoided the topic of his pace’s fate, keeping the other Underground mech on his topic of interest.

“I intend to strike up another partnership with you,” he had explained. “You give me news of Culumex’s political front and I’ll tell you the same about Praxus—an even trade.”

Armed with that assurance, Twincharge had confirmed everything Overclutch had relayed to him and then some, noting several instances of dissension in the capitol and the nearer sectors. Solus in particular was becoming a problem—lower-class tourists unexpectedly holding robberies or staging riots—and Alchemist was taking full advantage of the confusion. More often than not the rioters would end up in police custody with some of their members missing. Twincharge wasn’t sure yet which members of NET had infiltrated Solus, but he would continue to investigate.

All of it left Strain with a heavy spark as he slid a credit stick across the bar counter and sipped at his energon cube, though he perked up when he heard two of the nearby tenants’ voices rise slightly as they bickered.

“Look, Volley, all I’m saying is that they don’t run the world, you know?”

“Yeah, but they run the _city!_ What have I been telling you? None of the middle-class mechs are going to be running in the next election and do you want to know why? It’s because they know they won’t get any support—or if they do manage to claw their way up there, they know just what the high-caste councilmechs who have already established themselves will do to them! They’re not in the mood to be _ruined_.”

“Well, what’s wrong with having some high-caste politicians?”

“No, no, no, it’s not a partial count; it’s _all_ of them! I haven’t seen a middle-class mech integrate into the council in vorns, have you?” Volley insisted.

“Alright, so maybe the vote is biased. What’s wrong with that? Who cares?” his friend protested, throwing up the hand that wasn’t occupied by an energon glass. “If the high castes up in the Assembly tower, they’re not going to be down here bothering us.”

“No, they’re not, but that means they’re not going to be down here _helping_ us either,” Volley reminded him sagely. “They don’t know the kind of things we put up with—like those low-caste scrapheaps who tried to murder everyone vorns ago? All too soon, any of the ones those policemechs have missed will be having bootlegged sparklings who are trained to build bombs!”

“Perhaps if you spoke about them with more respect, you might have more hope for the future,” Strain muttered, detecting how a few of the other tenants within audial range, the ones with noticeably faded paint, were looking away or leaving in humiliation. Volley perked up, twisting around at the counter toward Strain, who raised his eyebrows. “It’s simply a thought.”

“A thought?” Volley echoed in a scoff. “Who asked what you thought? I didn’t know knockoffs _could_ think!”

“Hey, you should be quiet, Vol,” his friend urged him, adding an elbow for good measure. The warning laced through the words apparently wasn’t clear enough, as Volley immediately shook his helm.

“No, no, I want to hear what this one has to say! It seems like he’s speaking for the low castes, so I’m quite interested!”

“I’m simply saying that all of you, no matter your caste, are simply _Praxians_ ,” Strain stated rigidly, trying to ignore the prickling impression down his backstrut that meant others in the bar were now staring at him. “They’re your people. You should treat each other as that and nothing else.”

“You’re saying that as if you’re not one of us!” Volley exclaimed. “How are we supposed to treat you, little mech? What are you, anyway? No doorwings, no chevron… _Are_ you even one of us?”

“Primus, are you a crossbreed?” Volley’s companion asked wondrously, more ignorant than offending, but Volley latched onto it as soon as the words left his mouth.

“A crossbreed?! Well, then, you truly are a knockoff! What is it supposed to say about the low-castes that they can bring themselves to have _you_ as their fanatic supporter? It seems that subversion is more likely than ever!”

Strain felt several pain indicators rise up at once and realized that he was clenching his fists too tightly. He rose abruptly, targeting the door, and then felt a hand snatch at his arm and pull him back.

“I was speaking to you, misspark,” Volley spat.

The first thought that ran through Strain’s mind was that the position Volley was holding, leaning over on his seat, made him incredibly vulnerable—enough that if Strain spun around, he could crack his free hand down on the stupid glitch’s helm and give him a sizeable dent in his chevron from the metal bar on the edge of the counter. He got as far as whirling around and wrenching his arm free before he remembered what happened the last time he had notably lost his temper. Ex-venting shortly, he settled for bringing himself to full height so his face was uncomfortably close to the taller mech’s as he quietly ranted.

“You clearly don’t understand what a _terrorist_ is. A terrorist is someone who intimidates civilians who mean them no harm, who tries to make them _submit_ , who sees plots where there aren’t any and tries to force their beliefs on others. So go ahead, call me a misspark and a crossbreed and a fanatic, but make sure you’re willing to tolerate the reputation it gives you. I would hate to see a cheap knockoff give out under pressure, but as it stands, I am _done_ speaking with you.”

With that, he moved toward the exit, narrowly dodging Volley’s second petty attempt to swipe at him from behind and glancing back with an unsettling snarl before he disappeared. He had a feeling this encounter would be one of a number he would recount to the eager Twincharge.

As the tense stillness in the bar was gradually refilled by conversations, no one noticed a grim, unattractive mech at the corner table rise and follow Strain’s path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spar, my friend, it's wonderful to be writing you again! <3 Sorry for the time jumps, but I needed to play a little bit of catch-up. You should know that by this time, Cliffjumper is well-established in Brawn's pace as the temperamental one and Bumblebee has found what will soon become his new home. It's also about now that Twincharge and Gears are going to have that little talk about the caste system and about the problems it's beginning to pose...


	24. Epilogue

_Run._

Strain’s spark raced just as quickly as his footsteps, but his thoughts were fairly clear, made sharp with adrenaline. He had been in this situation more times than he cared to count; he knew what to do: he paced himself, trying to keep ahold of his feet, counting every step and losing the count every so often.

He focused on escape, stumbling and clenching his teeth as he tightened his grip on his burning side, energon squeezing through the seams of his scraped and dented fingers. It sounded like the NET agent’s footsteps were falling farther behind, but with the way the scenery was spinning and fading in and out around him, Strain couldn’t trust that guess.

The first familiar doorway he reached was locked up for the night and while he was tempted to break it down, that would only result in getting cornered. He gasped raggedly as one of his legs gave out underneath him, jarring his fingers free from his wound and spilling fresh rivulets down his abdomen, waist, and the ground underneath him.

Shaking with exhaustion, he pressed his forearm against the blood flow, fumbling with his damaged comm. link and calling the number Twincharge had recently supplied to him.

“ _Yes? This is Windcharger_.”

Cursing faintly as static buzzed through the link, Strain focused more intently on the familiar voice. “Windcharger…” Was he imagining the heavy footsteps echoing down the corner?

“ _Strain?_ ” Windcharger sputtered in disbelief, partially muffled by a hand to cover the din in the background. “ _Wh-What are you—why are you calling me?_ ”

“I wouldn’t unless it was a matter of great importance,” Strain hissed, grimacing and pressing wet fingers against his face. “I’m calling to warn you. There are signs that all of Culumex has missed, things we’ve all been too blind to see, but only because the rumblings are in the capitol alone. They haven’t spread yet, but it won’t be long before they do. The Sector Council—Logos’ preparations—above all, the  **verriesen** —”

“ _Wait, Strain, slow down!_ ” Windcharger commanded, much to Strain’s frustration. “ _You’re not making any sense. What rumblings? What about Logos? Didn’t you move to Praxus so you could forget about Culumex?_ ”

 “In the past few vorns I’ve learned that Praxus isn’t entirely safe either, especially for…” Laughing a little, Strain leaned forward slightly, squinting against the pale streetlight and seeing nothing. “…my kind. But you, your pace, you know nothing of what may be coming…” A sharp lance of pain cut off his next words and he went limp inch by inch, wheezing stiffly through it.

“ _Strain…Are you alright?_ ” Trust Windcharger to catch more than Strain had intended. “ _You sound wrong, like you’re—_ ”

“Windcharger, you need to prepare yourself,” Strain cut him off in a rush.

“ _Prepare myself for what and when?_ ”

Impatience finally seeping through, Strain spat, “Look, there are rumblings through several cities—whispers telling of trouble in the government, traveling through cities one by one. When I speak of trouble, I mean the kind of trouble mechs like you and I should  _never_  be a part of if we value our lives, worse than anything the Underground or NET could conjure up. I can’t be sure of the extent of it, but when I know for sure, I’m going to call you. When I do, be ready.” Shuddering with another halting gasp of pain, he murmured, “Proper preparation prevents poor performance.”

Windcharger would know what that meant—the situation was critical, a matter of life and death, but only more static shivered through the call before it was dropped and Strain tore the link from his audial, cursing. As he looked up again, a dark mass cut in front of the streetlamp, blocking out the light.

“My carers intend for me to take you,” Wayfair announced, monotone. “And I _don’t_ intend to fail.”

“Well, I might have something to say about that.”

Strain’s blurring vision didn’t serve to decipher the streams of light he saw swinging at Wayfair from somewhere to his left, but his audials were still reliable as a voice much closer urged, “Hey, hey! Lie still, you’re hurt—”

“Sp—Spectrum?” Strain gasped, twisting toward the voice despite the younger mech’s warning. “What are you doing here? It’s been vorns—why did you come back?”

“There’ll time for that later,” Spectrum answered hurriedly, visor flashing over Strain’s wounds. “We need to get you to a medic.”

“No,” Strain spat. “NET can find me at a hospital and I doubt I'd be a caste-worthy candidate for treatment in the first place. I’ll guide you…Take me to my new hideout; you can treat me there.”

“New hideout? Oh…so mine really _wasn’t_ secure,” Spectrum realized, frowning apprehensively. “Ves? A little help here, if you please?”

“That should do it!” Vestige hollered, vibroblades smoking as energon burned away from them. As he sheathed them, he shielded his optics from the streetlight, watching Wayfair make his escape. “You’re lucky we were in the area, Strain, or you would’ve really had a problem.”

“You—you stayed together,” Strain muttered as Vestige and Spectrum each took one of his arms. “You—came here by _luck?_ ”

“Not really, but like I said, there’ll be time for that,” Spectrum repeated firmly, putting his other hand on his back to steady him. “Let’s get you back on your feet and then…well, we’ll have some things to talk about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End?
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed "The Outcrossers (Look Away)" as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Though the story is far from over, it's been a pleasure to write thus far! Thank you so much to everyone who's left a comment; you make my day!
> 
> Keep a weathered eye on the horizon, readers. Twilight is falling fast...

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you're enjoying! Please leave a comment and tell me what you think; I'd love to hear from you! <3


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